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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443362">Within Sight, Within Mind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sakusa Kiyoomi, Canon Compliant, College Sakusa, Exhibitionism, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Light Food Play, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, MSBY Atsumu, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Porn With Plot, Slow Burn, Top Miya Atsumu, Touch-Starved, Voyeurism, Webcams, Yes you read that right, thigh pining, where canon exists anyway</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:28:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,954</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443362</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sakusa and Atsumu’s paths diverge after high school, a feeble friendship deepens via unexpected means.</p><p>It begins with watching World League matches together over videocall, but when their focus shifts in each other’s direction, innocent intentions get tossed out the (Skype) window.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1319</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. online</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello </p><p>you may remember me as the anon author of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787083">Teach Me, Tune Me, Tempt Me</a></p><p>I have returned with the first part of this mess</p><p>some regrets</p><p>but that’s how it goes with sakuatsu</p><p>enjoy</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://twitter.com/asakuatsu">twitter here (18+ only)</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One final match, one final loss.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Goddammit. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For the rest of his days, Miya Atsumu will wonder how one <em> Sakusa Kiyoomi </em> - he of the invincible kills and judgmental glances - can captain a team to victory above his. Across netted nylon, their matching number 1’s designate those identical roles of leadership. But now, four fiercely fought sets at Nationals later, he grudgingly admits that there is only a lone “1” at the top.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good game, Miya.” From his long-time rival comes the usual monotony, flat tone and flat lips displaying no joy whatsoever towards the recent triumph.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Congrats, Omi-kun!” He grins as he always does, setting their expressions in reversal, surely to fool any new spectators as to the true winner of this semi-final.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their outreached fingers barely brush, but this no longer surprises, as anyone in the elite high school tier - Atsumu himself among them - has long been subject to Sakusa’s notorious handshake aversion. By this point, Atsumu can’t tell if he should feel lucky to be at least worth a little effort, or feel slighted that after so many years of intense back-and-forths, he <em> still </em> isn’t worth a proper touch.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But alas, he respects what’s to be expected. As far as he’s concerned, Sakusa can be the one to initiate, even if that moment never ever comes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>On the sidelines, he returns to a team steeped in disappointment, and embraces Osamu with what remains of his strength.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I really wanted yer last one to be a win.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Top four is more than fine, ‘Tsumu.” His twin pats his sweat-stained back, the usual mockery absent. “None of us thought we’d get this far this year - not even you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Indeed, no seeding had accompanied the Inarizaki name coming into this tournament, the result of a mediocre performance at InterHigh prelims and bizarre losses throughout the season. But once again, they had shocked this Spring Nationals crowd, erasing any unsavoriness from the previous year with new upsets - this time much more favorable to their cause.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so, Atsumu guards the door to the locker room, a pillar of encouragement consoling the last of his juniors as they file past one by one, sulking postures confident again after his brief words. He had kept all their spirits high throughout volatile months, with his unwavering energy playing conductor to the final few matches that had <em> really </em> mattered. The championship trophy does not land in their hands in the end, but at least, on this last day of his high school volleyball journey, Miya Atsumu continues his claim over the precious element of surprise - and managed to exceed all expectations.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Expectations - the rule of thumb for the elite. Conditions he must eclipse.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wanders the stadium corridors one final time, seeking out the few who will continue on this path, all their hands grasping at straws dyed in National Team red. There are those few names who had made him a better player through association alone, but perhaps even moreso through the discipline of constant defeat. Alas, failure is temporary, having never clouded his unconditional love for this sport. Now with high school sorted away and Osamu’s decision a matter of the past, new dreams of success and partnership already color his eager mind. <em> Who Needs Memories</em>, after all? Fresh alliances lie just ahead - quite literally - ripe for his picking.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Moto-kun! Omi-kun!” He harvests ripened banana yellows with audacity. “Glad I caught ya before I left!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Itachiyama pair approaches with casual steps, as if they hadn’t just ascended to cloud nine from a traditional locker room celebration. Their disheveled selves, however, give away the chaotic event, and Atsumu hides his surprise at Sakusa’s messy hair and wrinkled clothes - a far cry from his usual, well-groomed appearance.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> So he </em> does <em> allow himself to be touched. </em> His personal expectations readjust, so very slightly. Despite the affectionate nickname for his opponent, they had never spoken much throughout the years, and Atsumu likely knows more about the his fellow 3rd year’s favorite type of toss than his favorite afternoon snack. But Sakusa’s cryptic aura had always tempted him to decode and keep decoding, so - <em> ice pops, </em> he guesses then and there by impulse, not logic, <em> since they’re just as cold as him. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ll see you soon in the V. League, Atsumu-kun?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Motoya nudges with an elbow, reminding him of his original intentions. Though they’ve never discussed in-person, Atsumu knows very well that the libero has already signed his contract with the Raijins, while his cousin the ice pops lover - <em> probably </em> - had decided to embark on a four-year academic career first, much to the shock and awe of the entire Japanese athletic system.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He swallows disappointment that he won’t face Sakusa consistently for the next few years - after all, Monster Gen only begets Monster Gen, and in the face of adulthood and all its obligations, he would much rather continue playing alongside what’s already familiar. A joke that Sakusa should consider joining his team post-graduation nearly escapes his reckless tongue, but the masked one looks like he wants to dig a hole and dodge any chit chat, so Atsumu resorts to soliciting Motoya about some still unspoken plans.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Moto-kun, I got a great idea for how we can prepare for our <em> amazin’ </em> and <em> paid </em> careers.” The emphasis is <em> not </em> meant to make Sakusa envious, of course - <em> does the guy even feel envy? Or anything at all? </em> He doubts it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh? Do tell!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Well, at least his cousin has an actual spectrum of emotions. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How ‘bout watchin’ some international matches live together and analyzin’ ‘em over video call? I did that sometimes with my high school ‘mates to warm up, and it always helped.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ohhh, <em> definitely </em> a good idea! But I only get a chance to see those when I go over to Kiyoomi-kun’s place - his family has <em> all </em> the international channels!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah, but now that ya will be in Hiroshima…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yep, probably won’t get much access, so I’ll just stick to highlight reels.” Motoya shrugs, though the glint in his eyes does not extinguish. “<em>But</em>...Kiyoomi-kun, <em>you’ll </em> still watch a lot of matches while at Waseda, no? You’re dedicated to doing that already.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> So we have one thing in common, at least</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Maybe…” The word is barely audible through Sakusa’s mask, his expression clearly miffed that Motoya had outed his viewing habits.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, my offer’s open to anyone!” Atsumu exclaims, expecting little in return. “Do ya use Skype, Omi-kun? I get on it with ‘Samu whenever one of us is away. But obviously, he won’t watch any more games that don’t have <em> me </em> in ‘em now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sakusa frowns directly at him. “Yah, I use it. To keep in touch with my older siblings.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Whaddya know? </em> Two <em> things in common. </em> “How ‘bout addin’ me to yer contacts then? Isn’t it more fun to watch volleyball <em> with </em> someone?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A smooth forehead succumbs to folds, irritation as deep as their crevices. “No…?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Ouch</em>.” Despite sustaining a smile, Motoya sounds genuinely hurt, no doubt reliving his many experiences at the Sakusa household.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Likewise, Atsumu cannot rationalize why he’s even invested. If Motoya won’t join the fray, there are certainly much better second options than the disgruntled one alongside them. But as with much else, once he latches onto something, it becomes impossible to let go. <em> Maybe</em>, he reasons to himself, <em> it’s a way to decode Sakusa Kiyoomi once and for all. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“C’mon, Omi-kun. Gimme a <em> chance</em>.” Thus, he cocks his head, playing up the charm. “Ya know how much I love volleyball at this point! I’m fun to play with <em> and </em> to watch with, I swear.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Why </em> would I need more commentary than what’s already on TV?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Dontcha wanna hear volleyball speak in some lovely <em> Kansai dialect</em>??”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not exactly?” Sakusa, future elite university attendee with an IQ of who-knows-what, seems understandably confused at his awful logic. “Can’t you just ask...<em>Suna</em>? He’s going pro, too...”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atsumu tosses a sideways look. “Moto-kun, do <em> you </em> think Sunarin has ever paid attention to this kinda stuff?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Highly doubtful.” The shakes of Motoya’s head are confident. “And as his teammate next season...that should probably scare me a little, ha!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The two of them exchange chuckles then, and Sakusa looks dreadfully concerned at their growing camaraderie.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Just humor him, <em> Kiyoomi-kun</em>.” Oblivious to his cousin’s distaste, the libero pushes a final persuasion. “I literally don’t know two people <em> more </em>dedicated to following the professionals.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The quietest ten seconds in Atsumu’s lifetime pass, marked only by a heavy sigh from Sakusa at the tailend, his half-closed eyes buried in an elongated thought.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...I’m allowed to mute you at any time?” A muffled question sounds, voiced almost like a demand.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Startled, Atsumu barely registers the change in attitude. “Sur...sure! Whateva’ ya want!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ok...<em>fine</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Between them, even Motoya looks impressed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Perfect then. I think uh, World League starts in...late May?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yah, I know. It’s on my calendar already.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Right, ‘course it is.” Atsumu scratches his nape as he laughs. A degree of nervousness bubbles at all this development, but his more provocative side still decides to test boundaries. “Then...it’s a date? Four months from now?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The spiker visibly freezes, and the curious once-over he soon gives Atsumu is anything but subtle.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, just a date <em> on my calendar</em>.” The denial is adamant, but Atsumu swears - <em> swears </em> - that it comes right when dark eyes briefly hang onto an imaginary hook around his hip. Before he calls out the stare, however, Sakusa’s tall frame has already dashed past.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Bye, Atsumu-kun.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Motoya trails him, leaving behind a wave and a thumbs up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-*-</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> I’m an idiot</em>. He realizes five minutes into the busride back to Amagasaki. <em> I never even asked for his screenname</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s just a few extra steps: a text to Motoya - whose information he has somehow possessed since 2nd year - a half-assed attempt at conversation, a pretend-casual question for Sakusa’s mobile number. But Atsumu can practically hear the libero’s laughter as he trains back to the Itachiyama dorms, and he hopes to the volleyball gods that a certain cousin isn’t right next to him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before he even adds the newly acquired digits to the contacts list, a message notification arrives.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Unknown Number]</p>
<p>
  <em> You’re an idiot </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Saves me extra typing, at least</em>. With a sigh, Atsumu enters the not-so-mysterious number directly from the new panel before conjuring up a response. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Me]</p>
<p>
  <em> Yah I’m stupid sometimes </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> But still graduating in two months </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Just like you are </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Omi-kun]</p>
<p><em> So your head does have non-volleyball thoughts too huh </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> My screenname is Saku.Kiyo </em></p>
<p><em> But the display name is my full name </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> DON’T add me until we get closer to the World League dates </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“This is going <em> so </em> well already.” He mutters as he flips the phone shut, more than willing to comply.</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>-*-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the midst of his countless lifestyle transitions, obeying Sakusa’s request ends up easy. It’s not until months later, late night on the 23rd of May, when he finally presses the green button to commence their not-date, reconnecting them beyond the few terse texts.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Calling...</em>
  <b><em>Sakusa Kiyoomi</em> </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His fingers tap impatiently against the wooden surface supporting both his laptop and tablet, the former blanketed in random windows with Skype as the topmost layer, and the latter tuned into a decent quality, albeit illegal, livestream of EuroSport.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bubbly “pop” of a new window nearly makes him jump, and the muddled mosaic within slowly morphs into a masked human figure. Sakusa is dressed in a t-shirt doused in Waseda maroon, ruly-yet-unruly curls somewhat longer than back in January. A quick scan proves that his surroundings are as tedious as can be: vague signs of a recent move-in, an immaculate desk, walls empty save for one poster of indecipherable contents.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Off the court, and to Atsumu’s slight relief, Sakusa Kiyoomi devolves into the epitome of predictable.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey---” He greets the usual Skype way - loudly, a necessary test of the audio feed. “Heya, Omi-kun! CAN YA HEAR ME?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Within the sizable window, his counterpart gives a visible cringe and a struggled wave, his arm moving quickly to smash an unseen keyboard button - turning down the volume, no doubt. Before long, Sakusa returns to a stern posture within his chair, prompting both their spines to adopt the formality. For a few seconds, they sit on opposite ends of Japan, obedient like elementary students on the first day of school - or worse yet, two unfortunate candidates at a marriage interview.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So uh, why d’ya have a mask on?” Mind otherwise blank, Atsumu highlights the most obvious detail as an ice breaker. “Aren’t ya in yer dorm?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...I’m sick.” Comes the most unconvincing excuse he has ever heard.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ya don’t <em> seem </em> sick.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Uneasy eyes narrow further, and a previously hidden fist lifts to Sakusa’s covered mouth. The few fake coughs that ensue have no effort invested to make them appear legitimate, but the action is immediately effective, as Atsumu decides to quit pursuing the topic. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So how’s Wased--”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Miya.” Sakusa reveals his dislike for inane chatter much sooner than expected. “Did you shower already?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Omi-kun</em>.” Unsure of how to adapt to these blunt speech patterns, he feigns aggravation. “That’s kinda forward of ya…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The younger man looks unmoved. “I’ll be more comfortable watching with someone who’s <em>clean</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But...we’re lookin’ at each other through a <em>screen</em>??” Atsumu protests, resisting the sudden urge to give his shirt a just-in-case sniff. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Doesn’t matter. I <em> don’t </em>want to see your grime, even in pixel form.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Waseda. High IQ. Grime visible via webcam</em>. With that, all his assumptions of Sakusa’s intellectual capabilities are set aside for further evaluation. But the start of the game is imminent, so Atsumu half admits defeat to the unyielding request.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>, it’s almost 11pm. I already showered.” He clumsily fluffs damp hair with splayed fingers and a few shakes of his head. “<em>See </em>? My hair’s still a bit wet.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Within the frame, Sakusa’s figure freezes, as if suspended by lackluster internet speed. But there is a blink, followed by an obvious shift in the wells of his eyes, replenished in charcoal rather than dark grey.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Trick of the camera focus? </em> He wonders, but doesn’t mull on it for long. “Um, anyway, how are ya watchin’ the match?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two more blinks, and Sakusa emerges from stagnance. “I’m streaming it...here.” He pulls a tablet into view, its screen displaying the exact same broadcast as Atsumu’s, on the exact same website. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Illegal streaming</em>? Mr. Perfect Sakusa Kiyoomi, committin’ a <em> crime</em>?!” With the instinct of a jester, Atsumu slaps a hand against his chest, maximizing incredulousness.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What, Miya? Are you going to report me to the <em> internet </em> police now? Contrary to what Motoya assumed, I’m <em> not </em> paying for any international channels if I’m not using them daily.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nah, I won’t tell. Since I’d only be arrested as yer accomplice.” He smirks while grabbing for his tablet, flaunting it proudly like a prize both of them successfully stole.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The showcase inspires an eye roll, but even through hazy striations and the obscurity of a mask, Atsumu detects a hint of amusement.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Right then, uniformed figures begin to fill the onscreen court.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh hey, it’s startin’.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Like on auto-pilot, their personalities drift into that other mode fueled by hunger and intrigue, the eagerness to learn flicking on concentration towards every on-court action, while emptying their mouths of snide comments. For seconds upon minutes, their eyes only track the rapid movements of names they admire, completely ignoring the Skype window. A strong play comes about every few minutes, prompting brief conversation between them about its potential strategy. But even then, they speak while maintaining focus, directing all words and statements towards their tablets and not each other.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>To his delight, Sakusa only seems to mute him once - and rightfully so, as the decision comes during an especially long rally on Brazil’s set point, throughout which Atsumu’s hollering uncontrollably like a madman.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>By the time Italy wins, three sets to one, Sakusa has yet to sign off out of annoyance, and Atsumu secretly celebrates his own small victory.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So? How was I?” He grins into the camera, a player of this personal game, seeking analysis.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A hand lifts to the mask again, but rather than fielding another false cough, it remains clutched to Sakusa’s chin, expressing contemplation that rings authentic.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...not as unbearable as I imagined.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Ah</em>. For him, the younger man’s tolerance is a new mystery, but also one most welcomed. “Tomorrow, then? Round two?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yah...sure, I guess.” The nod is singular and typical, but an extended - almost endearing - yawn follows it, giving Atsumu a rare display of vulnerability that he may never witness under stadium lights.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He clears his throat, and tries to clear his head of any overtly tender adjectives. “It’ll start a couple of hours earlier than tonight’s.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I know. It’s all in my calendar, <em> remember</em>?” Sakusa arches an eyebrow in arrogance, effectively ridding himself of said tender qualities. “Night, Miya.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Night, Omi-kun.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-*-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They settle into this bizarre routine with no label, an absolute minimum of conversations bookending those initial, prescheduled gatherings. But what Sakusa doesn’t share verbally, Atsumu observes and absorbs: there is the occasional open textbook on the desk, revealing the subject of his next college exam; the way he spins a pen with the dexterity of a magician’s slight-of-hand during intense rallies; the calls of his roommates in the background asking where some household item is, and the surprising patience Sakusa offers them, even if it keeps him away from the match for quite a while. In those times, Atsumu finds himself recalling memories of vocal frustration at his parents, which he had openly expressed whenever his viewings were interrupted. By any means, his current companion appears more patient than most give him credit for, and perhaps, his past ability to lead Itachiyama should’ve never been in doubt. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Above all, however, it’s the extended hours of simply Sakusa himself on open display, allowing for much longer timeframes to decipher that uncrackable surface. He’s almost regal in all his refined, porcelain-like complexion, Atsumu realizes in the middle of Brazil vs. Poland’s third set. An intangible young monarch of sorts, crowned not only by the kingdom of volleyball but also the citizens of academia, both of whom’s lands he now rules with reverence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Does he even regard me as an equal? Or simply a “peasant from the west?” </em> Strange thoughts of this ilk begin to bother him in the middle of Atsumu’s days. And to his chagrin, such doubts always detour towards something much more trivial.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Either way, his eyelashes are annoyingly long. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their sixth not-date becomes a significant defiance of Atsumu’s expectations. Once they connect, what appears on screen is Sakusa with no mask at all. Instead, a familiar pink sphere rests in front of his chest, its bottom half hidden, but identity obvious.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is that...a <em> Vabo-chan </em> plush?” He attempts to camouflage the extreme shock at barefaced Sakusa with another, lesser one.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yah. I brought it to school with me.” Shapely eyebrows quirk, as if daring judgment. “What of it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well…” He wanders over to his bed and retrieves something identical, still supple with aged stuffing. When the plush makes its grand entrance, a childlike wonder overcomes Sakusa’s features.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s a bizarreness to establishing their status as equals this way, a child’s toy negating any differences between monarch and peasant. By now, he has lost count of all the commonalities they share, this one being the latest. But the sight of both of them embracing the same plush constructs a connection far stronger than anything previous, for it represents not only nostalgic comfort, but also mutual commitment they bring to all their games, whether as players or spectators.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh.” An unusual softness inundates Sakusa’s voice. “How long have you had yours, Miya?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Since I was around...twelve?” He searches for the month and year within his lifetime. “Figured I should bring it with me to Osaka for good luck or somethin’. I even had sweaters of him back in the day.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ve had mine since around 10.” Sakusa counters. “So I win.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is <em> everything </em> a competition with you??”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We’re literally about to watch one, Miya.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next 70 minutes or so is the longest Atsumu sees Sakusa maskless outside of a court - and the sight is also the most unexpected distraction. Contrary to popular belief, the spiker regards a match with far more awe than intensity or boredom, like he’s seeing the most typical plays for the very first time. During hard-won points, his pensive face exudes a subtle energy rivaling Atsumu’s clamorous one, finespun excitement supplemented by how he devotedly clutches the plush. It’s as if the surgical mask exists as a defense mechanism, a last means of protection from all the purer expressions Sakusa wishes to hide.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He realizes, then, that the one he faces about twice a week is Sakusa, but also <em> Sakusa Kiyoomi</em>, an alternate identity summoned between color filters and liquid crystal, entrapped within that resizable yet inflexible frame. But despite being a duplicate, perhaps <em> Sakusa Kiyoomi </em> is the bona fide existence, a gentler persona intentionally hidden beneath more insipid, volleyball-obsessed analogs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At the end, Atsumu maneuvers his Vabo-chan to wave goodbye into his webcam - stubby arms, stuffed white hands and all. <em> Sakusa Kiyoomi</em> pauses with skepticism to start, but then does the same right back, completing an awkward yet satisfying exchange.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s a mostly sincere bond from then on, formed through fragile dependencies on high-speed internet and low-res videos. The subpar framerates not only capture two rooms, but also the tiniest evolutions taking place within them - each either challenging one of Atsumu’s expectations, or unraveling one of Sakusa’s mysteries.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Never to be outmatched, Atsumu begins to keep the visible parts of his background in almost painful neatness - stark furniture done and dusted, no hint of scattered clothes or clutter as weaknesses to be snarked at. It's not as if Sakusa ever comments on his efforts, much less compliments them, but the fruitless rituals maintaining that single corner still carry on over days, nights, weeks - and eventually permeate into his whole apartment. Soon enough, far beyond the focal length of his webcam are laundry organized by color, and bathroom tiles kept spotless, and magazines always stacked perfectly for no reason at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Omi-kun’s influence” is what he proudly answers when Meian praises the state of his home during a random visit. His senior clearly does not understand the reference, but no follow-up question ever arises.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Those occasional matches that fall around meal time expose rituals of other kinds - though much more on Sakusa's part. Rather than textbooks, displays of intricately plated dinners surface on his desk instead, the contents far too delectable to originate from the Waseda cafeteria or a random konbini. As points stack up for both teams on the livestream, food disappears into Sakusa’s mouth via testing first bites and dreadfully slow chews, as if they may contain doses of poison - despite being his own creation.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Yours looks good." Atsumu mumbles not-so-mindlessly at perfectly-grilled mackerel one evening.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"It is."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As Sakusa concurs, his signature glance lands on Atsumu’s store-bought sushi, persecuting its existence from 500 kilometers away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It doesn't take long after that for Atsumu to dial Osamu's number, demanding a list of manageable recipes that won’t have him hiding future meals in shame.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“This is homecooked, ya know.” He boasts less than a week later, tilting a steaming bowl of curry into view. “Wish ya could smell it!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sakusa wordlessly evaluates while picking at his oyako-don, expression otherwise composed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Text me your brother's recipe." He motions with both chopsticks right before the game's starting whistle sounds. It’s a deduction as accurate as his in-game ones, exposing strategy at its core and identifying involved parties, all while he himself remains completely unbothered.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-*-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What Sakusa is even more unbothered by, he notes, is any measure of stress.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The spiker’s resilience levels so high that he seldom displays signs of post-training fatigue, much less post-match. As a consequence, Atsumu nearly forgets how the collegiate volleyball season has long since begun. Those rookie volleyball experiences at Waseda pass on in obscurity, ironically never brought up as a topic of conversation, even as they watch the exact same sport in other contexts.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he finally realizes the oversight, Atsumu rushes to seek out those much rarer college match broadcasts in secret, and commits hours to the flights of a single maroon uniform numbered 13. From the first play he witnesses, he already swallows disdain at how Waseda’s starting setter can’t deliver what his talented wing spiker deserves. But some time during those unmentioned daily practices, Sakusa adjusts to the flaws he’s given and completes countless kills game after game, unruffled throughout the school’s string of consecutive victories.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Still. </em> He thinks. <em> He deserves better. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A couple of yer spikes last night looked exactly like the one just now.” In June, during one of their European League viewings, the compliment Atsumu had meant to share for ages escapes. “Yer even scarier these days.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He can feel the heat of a surprised stare through the laptop screen; formerly lightless spheres now alert, widening to the size of Vabo-chan’s plastic eyes - that silent confusion of <em> You watched? </em> resounding above the commotion of the broadcast. The concentration on his tablet never breaks as he prepares to provide one of several rehearsed excuses. <em> Yes, of course I watched! I love volleyball, remember? I enjoy seeing anyone play at any level, including you. Especially when it’s you--- </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thanks. I guess.” The anticipated question never comes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Oh. </em> He’s almost unprepared for the lack thereof, but with such an opening, his instincts immediately nudge him in a whole other direction. Because ultimately, Miya Atsumu possesses little to no self-control.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, ya likin’ the tosses ya get?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m...becoming used to them.” Sakusa squeezes palm against knuckle, and gives grudging grace. “They’re not as good as Iizuna-san’s, but I don’t think anyone will ever surpass his, anyway.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mm.” A mental goal post self-constructs within Atsumu’s mind then, for no reason in particular - or so he has convinced himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And thus, the brief comments of Sakusa’s own gameplay finally get inducted into their conversations, with one party never directly admitting that he watches any moment he can find, and the other never questioning why this happens in the first place. On rare occasions, a teasing critique replaces a compliment, but past those initial frowns flashed back at Atsumu in low resolution, the relevant tweaks Sakusa makes by his next game are jarringly noticeable.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your dump that won the second set last night was nice.” It’s Sakusa who speaks nonchalantly weeks later, the night after Atsumu debuts for the Black Jackals.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thanks. I guess.” He doesn’t ask why, either. <em> Of course he watched. He loves volleyball, too. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>-*-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s not ice pops, he also discovers soon enough.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In fact, Sakusa’s favorite snack is the total opposite, and he eats so much <em> pickled plum </em> during some of their viewings that Atsumu’s shocked his lips haven’t turned the same color as his Waseda t-shirts yet - not that he’s paying extra attention to anyone’s lips, of course. He berates himself for only considering coldness as a factor back then, because in the end, ice pops have another very specific quality, and Sakusa Kiyoomi, gentle as he may occasionally be, is anything but sweet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are those actually that good?” He comments in between points one day.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not-sweet Sakusa looks back not-so-sweetly, but his next gesture is all contradiction.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You want one?” He offers into the camera.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For reasons unbeknownst to himself, he leans in with mouth wide open, a slackened tongue welcoming the undeliverable. A goofy chomp precedes faked chews, puffed cheeks, and thoughtful expressions - an on-camera performance of a restaurant critic, pondering flavors as perplexing as the chef.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Onscreen, his exaggerated antics inspire a just-as-exaggerated eyeroll.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And? How does it taste?” Sakusa quips, tossing the snack back into his own mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Kinda like...air?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For the first time, there is a wholehearted laugh at one of his terrible jokes. The sounds echo across unflavored air and WiFi wavelengths before reaching Atsumu's ears, each reverb strangely delightful - strangely <em>sweet</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A day before their next watch, there is a package of the exact snack brand Sakusa favors in his mailbox, arriving via express delivery. He accepts the challenge, but sucks on a few ice cubes prior to the game to numb his mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sendin’ me this was kinda...<em> sweet </em> of ya.” That night, he unseals the pouch in plain view, holding back a snicker at double meanings known only to himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sakusa sinks a pointed chin into cupped palms before leaning forward, whispering secrets into their makeshift privacy. “I just wanted to see your face as you struggle through them.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It is, indeed, a struggle. But by the end of the match, they’re both more than halfway finished with their respective bags, and Sakusa has snorted at his pinched face at least seven times, so Atsumu decides that maybe sour is not such a terrible flavor, after all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He retaliates by an original method the next time around, lifting Vabo-chan over his face and commentating the entire game with the squeakiest voice he can conjure up. It draws a nonstop mixture of snickers and ashamed grumbles from Sakusa, but he never mutes him, much less blocks him as Atsumu had feared.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At every sign of the other’s amusement, Atsumu grins wide behind the plush - and is beyond glad for the camouflage. For the first time, it's apparent how differently these particular smiles feel on his face, and he begins to fear what may happen if they’re actually revealed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>By the time World Championships arrive, Sakusa's vocal cords have been given total freedom - out comes the satisfied grunts accompanying fist pumps, the occasional<em> yes </em> loudly hissed in response to any god-like receives. Granted, he's still muted compared to the ruckus Atsumu indulges in on a nightly basis, but Sakusa is far more verbal nonetheless, and their literal distance, previously represented by many, <em> many </em> periods of silence, also seems to shorten in correlation. The separation is practically nonexistent whenever they happen to support opposing teams, harkening back to the high school matchups Inarizaki had never managed to conquer. On those nights, speaker-transmitted hollers amount to double the enthusiasm their old rivalry had ever brewed, and Atsumu wonders - only wonders, of course - how they might behave had they actually sat together in the stands.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Playful punches to an arm? Arrogant sticking out of a tongue - or two? Shutting each other up by--  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Ha. I win."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Ya mean Iran won."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Yes, and that means Italy -- <em> you</em>, lost." Months in, the spiker no longer dampens any of his smugness, or the smirks that come along.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is the same large void in the wall right behind Sakusa's chair. Atsumu has a sudden urge to shove him up against it, and count exactly how many kisses it takes to reshape those sneering lips.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But distance - literal - exists again the moment the commercial for a French supermarket blasts its annoying jingle on both their tablets. And he bids a flustered farewell to the smirk he never erases, as well as the mirage of a touch-swollen mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-*-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the end, even unnamed routines evolve.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It feels inevitable, the first time they connect without fulfilling their usual purpose, on a night when icicles begin to form below the uneven terraces of Tokyo’s concrete jungle. The decorated cityscape is breathtaking to behold, but the day itself is one Atsumu would much rather forget - after all, how <em> does </em> one reconcile being a top-seeded team, yet prematurely knocked out of the year-end tournament?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He is in the capital for the first time all year, but his recent mentions of the visit to Sakusa had them both acknowledging its overlap with some critical final exams. And thus, the idea of meeting in-person had become a pipe dream long before a prospect. <em> Probably for the best</em>, Atsumu thinks as he exits the stadium, hoping to leave disappointment behind. <em> The way so many of my tosses failed - he would never let me hear the end of it. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>But right as his keycard unlocks a temporary home, his phone glimmers with signs of life, paving paths for another type of progress.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Omi-Kun]</p>
<p>
  <em> hey, back at your hotel yet? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> sign on if you are? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rather than returning the texts, he responds by scrambling towards his laptop. The hotel WiFi is less than ideal, taking annoyingly long to activate, and there is a sharp despair when his video call request fails to connect the first few tries.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When success finally manifests in a form blurrier than he’s accustomed to, Atsumu has to fold his lips to hide the pump of glee.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You alright, Miya?” Sakusa's voice battles through distortion, though it does not conceal evidence of genuine concern.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yah...don’t tell me - ya watched?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Within lengthy fingers, a pen twirls a few rounds before coming to a halt. “I may have taken...<em>a few peeks </em> in between studying.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His glee grows at the admission, muffling worries about judgment just moments ago. “Kinda upset for my team. But they seemed fine in the end, so I guess I’ll swallow my woes.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yah, don’t pity them." Sakusa's professor-like tone turns suggestion into instruction. "They deserve more than that from you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Just worried since...” He follows the scenario in kind, like earnest student seeking counsel. “The media’s gonna have a field day tomorrow. Y'know, a top team knocked out in the first round…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The pen now taps against a plump cheek. “I seem to remember that happening to you once before.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes Atsumu a few seconds to gather those 2nd year memories - of crows relentlessly chasing him into a foxhole. “Argh. Right…” His neck slumps, forehead knocking lightly unto the keyboard before elevating again. “Ya watched <em> that </em> one, too.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What are your expectations, Miya? For yourself?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The questions turn their dialogue into something insightful yet ironic, as the transition itself is most unexpected.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, that’s why there might be a media frenzy, no? Because you didn’t fulfill what people thought you were capable of?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“For myself…” He contemplates the lifelong question briefly, but fails to find an alternative to his lone answer. “I expect...everythin’? You?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sakusa blinks at first, as if caught off-guard, but the recovery comes swift.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I expect nothing. <em>Laissez-faire</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The French rolls off his tongue a bit too sensually for Atsumu's liking, its enunciation already settling a permanent home in his mind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, yer never surprised about anythin’?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The spiker slumps down this time, though his newly bent posture appears to refocus his attention, rather than reflect fatigue. “Not really. But there are...<em>occasional</em> exceptions.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Interestin’.” Atsumu teases, and mirrors the pose from his end. “I’d love to be there when yer surprised for once.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stacked wrists shield the bottom half of Sakusa’s face like a mask, but they’re nowhere near as effective, and Atsumu spies the upward twitch of an alluring smile. The greatest surprise up to now, perhaps, is their ever-broadening familiarity, full of wordless understandings learned over weeks, and all the added comforts conceived in each other's digital presence. And tonight - when no noise from a court or a commentator distracts - somewhere between the soothing quiet and a pair of inquisitive eyes, that hovering suspicion of a truth reconfirms itself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sakusa Kiyoomi is beautiful. Atsumu decodes - <em> knows, accepts</em>. And for once, he is within physical reach.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey um, ya doin’ anything for the rest of the night? I <em> am </em> in Tokyo.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The decline he expects is much softer in reality, and arrives much, <em> much </em> slower.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sorry.” Sloped shoulders eventually shrug before Sakusa raises a textbook from just off-camera. “Got another exam first thing tomorrow.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ah right.” Atsumu pretends to remember what he never actually forgot. “Never mind.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Any idea when you’ll be here next, Miya?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His spine nearly straightens at the follow-up, energized by unpredictability and opportunity both.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Um...not for a while, at least. Gonna go home to see my family during the off-season.” He divulges, but doesn't mention how the mere posing of a question had nearly convinced him to change his plans.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mm, I see.” Something in Sakusa's gaze can almost be interpreted as forlorn, but Atsumu can't tell whether it's solely part of the pipe dream. “...well, have to study now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is no verbal goodbye  - that hasn't been part of their routine for a while - as his companion seeks the exit button with the trackpad. But this time, Atsumu takes advantage of the lack of closure - one that leaves anything still open to possibility.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey. Just text me whenever ya wanna get on? Doesn’t have to be to watch a game.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Can just be like this. Us. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He receives another once-over, resembling the one from Spring Nationals in all its gradual appraisal. What prevails behind the look, however, appears far more keen than mere curiosity.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yah. Sure.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The window vanishes alongside the affirmative.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so, unnamed routine becomes uncounted hours, spent together yet far apart. They dwell within the same window frames, but fully at ease, all reservations and boundaries matters of the past. Gone is the stiffness from their first greeting, making way for more relaxed selves - figuratively laid bare, softening into the most natural postures and visible reactions. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Once in a blue moon, even the match of the night proves uninspiring, and they mentally tune out before occupying their time with other means. Two, four, five evenings a week - game or no game, now dominated by chatter Sakusa surprisingly engages with, the free flow of words chipping away at his protective dams. Any disdain originally directed towards Atsumu converts into grumbles about incompetent teaching assistants, or excitement about the latest series to debut in <em> Weekly Shonen Jump</em>. To Atsumu's great envy, there are also the stories of Sakusa's occasional outings with the Adlers trio, each instance rife with enough ridiculous details to make the spiker question his life choices. But ultimately, Atsumu figures those aren't taking place nearly as often as their one-on-ones, so for him, that’s some solace still.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Other times, Atsumu listens to ramblings about astronomy and all its probabilities. The vernacular is foreign yet fascinating - bolide, supernova, faculae, gamma rays - Sakusa rattles each one off like a shopping list of the universe's offerings, distant entities that may take generations to solve.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the end, it always reads like an autobiography: a faraway mystery, perceived through a lens, studied by the curious. For Atsumu, the research concludes scientific truth of a personal kind, uncovering supernovas glittering within two much smaller, ink-black galaxies, aflame with not only probabilities, but also inevitabilities.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His kitchen becomes one of those extraterrestrial realms, a change of setting and pace when words alone seem mundane. The webcam captures his live demonstrations of those old recipes from Osamu, throughout which he swings kitchenware with the flair of a celebrity chef.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em> Annnnnd </em> here’s yer share.” Whether cold or piping hot, the second serving of the night's dish usually lands gracefully in front of his laptop, unable to be consumed, but ready for cross-country judgment.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My share? You mean <em>your</em> leftovers for tomorrow.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not my fault if yer not here to eat it.” He sticks out his tongue, admonishing them both for missed opportunities, before using it to clear his own plate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Some days, they sit silent, leaving both cameras on as one studies and the other peruses volleyball forums. Two windows of private access left ajar, defining a muted yet intimate companionship, designating each other as the only accepted voyeurs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shifts, creeping shifts - warping Atsumu's perspective along the way, managing what still remains of his expectations. There are stirrings in his chest whenever he leaves Sakusa fullscreen for hours at a time, an acute aura spanning corner-to-corner, leaving no room for other tasks or thoughts to occupy. In turn, he notices the constant waver of Sakusa's focus, those numerous stolen glances lingering upon him, especially during their most dormant moments. And yet, Atsumu knows - Atsumu knows he only notices because his eyes also linger for too long.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There comes a point, breaking through their arbitrary veils like the outburst of spring beyond their apartment walls. He commits that habitual mistake during a boisterous championship match, when his attention trains on Sakusa’s enthused profile for more seconds than he intends. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why are you watching me and not the game, Miya?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m not.” He protests, but doesn’t turn away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Instead, Sakusa swings his neck to reciprocate, an enigma now challenging both their dilemmas.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why are you lying?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atsumu tugs a corner of his mouth upward.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Because ya would've also lied, if I asked ya the same question last night.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Contrary to him, Sakusa doesn’t voice any denial, and merely stares back to affirm that hypothetical lie. Atsumu loses track of the minutes that pass before a cheer drags both their eyes back to the game, and somewhere along the way, he sheds one of his last layers of inhibition.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The back-and-forth looks continue for endless nights, long and often longing. But no matter the length, or who takes first blame, those are particular life decisions neither of them question.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-*-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Weeks come and go, paving the entrance to a new school year, and Sakusa’s subsequent move into his own apartment. The intermittent disruptions from roommates cease, and their meetings become all the more exclusive, both actions and words prospering under the guarantee of privacy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nevertheless, Atsumu at least anticipates each session to begin with a variation of Sakusa sitting down at his desk. So on one particular evening, when the popup transitions to a camera angle facing a twin-sized mattress, he barely withholds a stammer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“H--hey.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He stammers, because the scene is much more complex than a shifted angle. There is complexity in Sakusa’s pose - naked legs split apart at nearly 180 degrees, outstretched arms extending towards toes; there is complexity in his clothing - a loose tank top instead of his customary t-shirt, dark shorts much more snug than usual against the curves of his ass; there’s complexity in his glance - its inherent cynicism replaced with something strangely beguiling. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s complexity in the younger man’s entire existence, compromising a whole batch of Atsumu’s assumptions - and going further beyond.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?” Sakusa stops just short of accusing him of staring again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nothin’. I just forgot how...<em>flexible </em> you are.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Have to keep working on it, otherwise I’ll lose it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Work on this. Don’t lose this. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey Omi-kun.” The question slips out, a wayward ball defying all his coordination. “Ya gotta significant other yet?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>On his laptop screen, Sakusa barely reacts as he tows a lower leg towards an arched back, the distinct outline of his calf muscle almost - keyword <em> almost </em> - delectable. “No. Why?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A tinge of relief overwhelms him as much as surprises him, sending Atsumu scrambling for excuses he had never prepared.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, as they say, college is <em> that </em>kinda time…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you?” The interruption comes far too swift, as if Sakusa had the words armed and ready right at the mesmerizing bend of his waist. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atsumu swallows. “...No.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, as they say, being a popular professional athlete is <em> that </em> kind of time…” The deep voice elevates in pitch, just enough to add mockery to its mimicry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Popular</em>?” Rather than focusing on the tease, he leans closer and teases a bit himself, unwilling to admit defeat for this portion of his few mastered crafts.  “Have ya been lookin’ at the fan polls or somethin’?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I voted a few times. For fun.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atsumu swears, <em> swears </em> that right then, the shorts-clad hip within the screen gives an intentional jut in his direction. For a second, he forces his full weight into his seat, suppressing that primal urge to follow suit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did ya...vote for me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Never in any of the good categories.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With that, Sakusa twists with inhuman ability, transforming his horizontal split into a side one. Atsumu watches, mouth suddenly devoid of all moisture, as the most controlled parts of himself also coil in response. It’s officially another competition, without the need for fan input or player histories - but history does provide one clue, in the form of a high school gaze attached to his hip.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Two can play this game</em>. He decides, and dismisses all pressure to stay composed. The next second, he is elevating both legs onto his desk, unabashed about the tantalizing way fabric rides up his upper thighs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Really now, Omi-kun?” He positions himself tediously, ensuring that his quads are front-and-center in Sakusa’s limited vantage point. “<em>I’m hurt</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sakusa holds his pose firm, a portrait of impressive self-control on the surface. But by now, Atsumu has spent sufficient hours studying and deciphering all his nuances. Within the streaming footage, he does not miss the severe roll of an Adam’s apple hinting at crumbling composure, or the quickened blinks exposing just how bothered Sakusa must be underneath.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Right then, a cellphone rings, the disruption far worse than roommates in its timing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“One second.” Sakusa slides off his bed and out-of-view, effectively ending their contest in a draw.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-*-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the ensuing days, Atsumu admits defeat, as his mind curses him with images of Sakusa’s stretches throughout both conscious and unconscious hours. Each snapshot takes on the grainy textures that afflict all webcam footage of this era, but none are low-quality enough to lead him astray from what he had seen on open display.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A slim waist, bowing in unholy directions; shapely calves, defined by perfect curvatures of muscle. Other than the already familiar bulges of bicep and tricep, it is a figure enveloped by bodyforming fabric, leaving everything beneath to imagination.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One particular dream puts said imagination into overdrive, as it propels him into some fictional future where projections evolve. Sakusa, not only 2-dimensional upon the laptop, but also a 3-dimensional clone upon Atsumu’s bed. The clone bends, poses, tempts - but every time Atsumu moves towards the expanses of pale skin, a solid sheet of glass blockades his fingers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Within sight, within mind - but akin to reality: completely out of reach.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He carries that frustration with him through the next V. League game, his tosses much wilder than average and rendering victory impossible. In a solo binge afterward, he downs twice as many drinks as usual, allowing deep cracks to invade the walls of his tolerance. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Somewhere between a taxi ride he doesn’t remember and stumbling steps into his bedroom, fingers that failed in their dreamed quest tap out a mangled version of a typical greeting, seeking satisfaction by another route.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Me]</p>
<p>
  <em> heysdfsign onn//? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Omi-Kun]</p>
<p>
  <em> Are you drunk? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Me]</p>
<p>
  <em> no </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> yeaa </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Even without Sakusa’s agreement, he hauls himself towards his desk, knocking over a number of objects along the way and disturbing that impeccable backdrop. The fight through material chaos continues via laptop opening failures, followed by him selecting the wrong application icon at least three times. By the time Sakusa appears, his silhouette even more mirage-like behind the veil of alcohol, Atsumu has already slid halfway down his chair.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re <em> hammered</em>, Miya.” The heavy tone of disappointment permeates the most clouded parts of his brain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hehhh. Yahhhhh, <em>sorta</em>.” He giggles, swallowing a hiccup along the way. “Ya look so funny, Omi-kun, all swirly…….’n like, <em> more </em>swirly…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I think that’s your sake vision talking for you.” The muddled form states matter-of-factly, but only one word registers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Sake</em>...I had lots and lots...tonight...hehhh…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Argh. Why am I even here? You’re <em> disgusting </em> right now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atsumu means to banter, to speak snide counters at his laptop screen as he had done hundreds of times before. Yet the lethal combination of dizziness and imbalance ensnare him, dashing  any hopes of a comeback.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But Sakusa stays put, not breaking their almost-nightly promise - <em> glowing </em> with a blend of fondness and enjoyment. It’s then that Atsumu’s inebriated neurons blast off one excessive logic in the midst of confusion - Sakusa <em> is Sakusa Kiyoomi </em> and vice versa, one and the same. Always earnest - <em> honest </em> - never a duplicate masked by a screenname.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And hence, he deserves honesty in return.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m disgusting, yah. And yer <em> pretty</em>, Omi-kun. Always so pretty every time I see ya…but so, <em> sooo </em> far away…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No matter the consequence, Atsumu does get one past wish fulfilled: being present when Sakusa expresses genuine surprise. In his drunken vision, unstoppable synthesis rouses those two dark galaxies he had explored time and again. The supernovas within them, rapidly progressing towards core collapse, before exploding into colors bearing no name - also pretty, also far away, and as unidentifiable as the emotions that overwhelm him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But then, that universe extinguishes, in the form of a sudden sign off and a window that automatically disappears.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh shit...<em>shit</em>...” His treasured access revoked, he tries to regain enough sensibility to at least text a retraction, or even an apology.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Amidst mental wrestling, he wonders whether his sober self had never imagined a drunken confession by webcam, his background a visual mess from those earlier stumbles, harshly revealing old habits and his truest self. He had so carefully matched, perhaps exceeded many of Sakusa's expectations over the course of a year. But what happens when he returns to unacceptable states outside of what a webcam records, vulnerable and in utter disarray? What happens when reality labels him as someone far below those expectations: subpar culinary skills, no academic accolades, and a string of professional failures? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sadly, said failures don’t seem limited to his career, as he falls asleep with his phone still in hand, half-written text message left unsent.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-*-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A morning shower clears the fog to a degree, though no amount of water comforts his mood. Atsumu is thrust back to Spring Nationals 2014 again, no longer in the role of encouraging captain, but brooding like one of his juniors had done.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He deletes the undelivered text, and rewrites a dozen more versions before deciding on the most neutral.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Me]</p>
<p><em> Hey </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Can we chat? </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Omi-kun]</p>
<p>
  <em> Yah </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Calling...</em>
  <b><em>Sakusa Kiyoomi</em> </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No matter how many expectations he has set aside over time, Atsumu is still unprepared for what graces his vision next.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s an empty chair initially, accompanied only by a bare wall’s matte coat of paint. And then, Sakusa enters the frame, also freshly showered, raven hair dangling in wet tendrils as he sits down.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But between the two of them, one critical difference - no tank top, t-shirt, or fabric of any sort covers Sakusa’s torso. For the first time, he literally lays bare, the remnant drops of liquid like condensation upon a porcelain surface, a few visible dark spots tempting Atsumu to imagine the existence of even more.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So. Why did you want to talk?” He questions with his typical tone, posture perfectly upright, the edge of the desk falling just below the lean musculature of his chest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Um. Well.” Atsumu tries to avert his eyes, but finds that such a movement would only appear more dubious. “I might’ve said some stuff last night on accident...so I…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“On <em> accident</em>?” Supporting an elbow against his lone furniture, Sakusa tilts his cheek into an open palm. “You mean everything you said was <em> true</em>, then?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In that moment, Atsumu recognizes who is truly dubious between them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I mean, I dun’ remember <em>everythin</em>’ I said to ya, but…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Am I pretty right now, too, Miya?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He gasps lightly, chilled by his own admission from hours ago, revised into such a candid question. It’s only then that Atsumu looks closely into his screen again, and he discovers dual galaxies still lit aflame, never actually extinguished - a patient blaze, awaiting the forging of brand-new stars.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“...yah. Very.” He affirms, and waits for the same.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Despite the stream’s discoloration, the tint of Sakusa’s skin visibly morphs from head to chest, flushing at the blunt acknowledgement. A makeshift overbite catches his bottom lip for a few seconds, before fateful words escape.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Can I see how pretty <em>you</em> are, then?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s not a request Atsumu ever predicted, or even a transparent instruction, but his limbs react with automatic purpose, as if having known this moment would arrive. And so, the hem of his t-shirt travels upward, over his abs and past the puzzle of his shoulders, the fabric turning damp as it makes contact with a swathe of wet hair. At the end, Atsumu abandons it onto the floor, caring little for anything currently outside of his webcam’s range.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is this another competition ya gotta win, Omi-kun?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yah.” Sakusa nods once, his voice almost hypnotized. “But the judging for this one...takes time.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So they stare, and look, and drink in. A nude torso is nothing either of them haven’t seen before, but here, within the dreadful confines of a screen - a constant reminder of the massive distance between them - even a sliver of skin, or a single uttered word, entices beyond belief.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What can be seen and imagined, yet <em> not </em> touched, has triggered the most unexpected of all - a fervent desire, reserved only for their two open windows.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then, there - the <em> moment</em>. Surpassing all Atsumu could’ve foreseen, Sakusa reaches out, and <em>initiates</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s a sense of victory he has never felt in 298 lifetime volleyball matches played, and who-knows-how-many-more viewed. Those fingers he has memorized, now inching towards a corner of that window, stretching into spaces along Sakusa’s computer that the camera installed up top can’t even capture. Atsumu practically feels the fearless fingertips appreciating his body, gliding across sensitive places that make his lungs hitch.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This must be ideal for Sakusa, he realizes, in all the ways it subverts handshake aversions and hesitations about Atsumu’s personal chaos. Past conflicts forgotten, they now thrive in a non-committal commitment that can only exist in the age of technology, one that disregards separation while satisfying their most basic yearnings.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Palpable tension builds, both their breaths now loud enough to be carried through speakers. Having sat still throughout Sakusa’s artificial contact, Atsumu finds himself debating between sliding hands towards his screen or his crotch. When the urge to do both becomes equally agonizing, he provides himself an ultimatum.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“O--Omi-kun.” He gasps out, no matter how hard voicing the appeal proves to be. “I...I think I gotta go.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sakusa snatches back his arm, ceasing any ongoing movements. “Okay. Yah, same here.” His eyes, distracted, yet as hopeful as his next words. “But sign on...tonight? If you’re free?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yah, I’ll text ya.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atsumu slams his laptop shut, before running into the shower for a second time that morning. Under another round of blasting rain, his head is drunk again, this time on the rosy hues of nipples, touches never actually felt, and scattered moles that dust across alabaster.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> How many more could there be?</em> He speculates, a trembling hand finally wrapping around what had demanded gratification.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>4?</em> He tugs four times, then another three. <em> 7?</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Inconsequential black dots, now an absolute calamity upon his mind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Omi-kun probably doesn’t even know.</em>
</p>
<p><br/>
<em> But maybe I will</em>. Another stroke, and he comes, comes, comes - ecstasy at the mere thought of distant, but endless discoveries.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry, or maybe NOT sorry, for so much plot!!</p><p>part 2 will be mostly h, if that’s any consolation.</p><p>comments/kudos I love! Also <a href="http://twitter.com/asakuatsu">come bug me on twitter (18+ only)</a> - or <a href="https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu/status/1327776594388193280">share the fic graphic</a> to confess your terrible sins</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. do not disturb</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>oop sorry, as it turns out this will have three parts and not two</p><p>trying to plot over h always ends up disastrous for me</p><p>but I hope you still enjoy this middle section</p><p>as mentioned new tags now added please note them</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu">find me on twitter (18+ only)</a> - <a href="https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu/status/1332848488820912128">twitter graphic for this chapter</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> I jerked off to Omi-kun. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s Atsumu’s one haunting thought for the next many hours, five words repeating like the most relentless of service drills, demanding the perfection of his acceptance.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I jerked off. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The first half: absolutely normal, absolutely young adult. A practice, he’s certain as he changes in the locker room, that all the teammates around him take <em> ample </em> part in, no matter how innocent anyone claims to be.</p><p> </p><p><em> I jerked off </em> <b> <em>to Omi-kun.</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>The second half: not so normal. A fact that strays half his tosses for the day, and an act he selfishly hopes he is currently alone in. Sakusa may be a budding college star, but as Atsumu has discovered, his chances of being broadcast to a wider - and wilder - national fanbase are still few and far between. He hopes, at least. He selfishly hopes.</p><p> </p><p><em> I jerked off to Omi-kun.<br/>
</em> <b> <em>(And I haven’t touched him for months.)</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>The addendum hits him as he walks home, a meteor of reality smashing reminders of their unusual relationship into the loose earth of his mind. What<em> is </em> this intangible connection built over phone lines and fiber optics? Is it artificial at best, or the most natural and human after all?</p><p> </p><p><em> Wait. </em> He pauses mid-step.</p><p> </p><p><em>I jerked off to Omi-kun.<br/>
</em><em>(And I </em><strike><em>haven’t touched him for months</em>.</strike> <b><em>have never </em></b><b><em>ever</em></b><b><em> touched him, other than a few times out of tradition and necessity.)</em></b></p><p> </p><p>Their “closeness,” an absolute illusion.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu thinks of astronomy ramblings, and the way two planets tediously orbit concentric to each other, never expecting to collide until some outward force decides they should. Their dedicated star, spherical with volleyball-like striations, guaranteeing a pair of consistent paths through invisible gravity.</p><p> </p><p>It is, in the end, the sport that had brought them together, its immense power nearly negating their blatant differences while reinforcing all that they do share. Over ongoing video streams that construct their universe, within the cherished privacy of population: two, it <em> has </em> become natural to possess curiosity, and human to desire.</p><p> </p><p>This connection - mystifying, intensifying, very much the outward force defying what their lone star commands. <em> Sakusa, </em> <em> “Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Omi-kun, </em> one and the same. In this virtual reality, Atsumu decodes not the individual, but the expectation: he <em> wants </em> him - and expects to have him, maybe.</p><p> </p><p><em> Calling...</em> <b><em>Sakusa Kiyoomi</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>A familiar Sakusa appears - pretty, fully-clothed, lit by pixelated incandescence countering the night.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>“So. Um.” Atsumu wants, <em> wants, </em> but remains cautious. “‘bout this mornin’--”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry. If I was out-of-line.” The apology, only the second ever uttered by Sakusa the entire year, cuts him off.</p><p> </p><p>“No, no ya weren’t. At all.” He thinks of his shower, and what <em> actually </em> constitutes being out-of-line, but his words go further back in time. “I was the one who got drunk and...said shit I shouldn’t have.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t mind.” A long neck twists slightly aside, shifting the direction of Sakusa’s face but not his gaze. “I was surprised by what you said, but I was...more surprised that I didn’t mind.”</p><p> </p><p>A staggering sense of relief washes over Atsumu, like he has been deemed deserving despite whatever inadequacies. “Right. That’s good, I guess. So...what now?” <em> What exactly are we doin’, Omi-kun? </em></p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know if I can answer that.” The gaze lowers, then flickers back to tentative life. “But what I do know, Miya, is that - I think about you. Sometimes.”</p><p> </p><p>Just like that, curiosity, desire - both aflame via the simplest words, burning vivacious in their wifi-powered universe.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe it’s because we’ve spent too many hours together lately, but this--” Sakusa continues, almost rambling, like another paraphrase from his textbooks. “I look forward to this. Every time.”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu smirks back, smug to be selected as the subject of choice. “I’m <em> that </em> much fun, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Doesn’t mean you don’t make me want to sign off sometimes.”</p><p> </p><p>“But ya never do.” He quirks a brow, memories rife with buttons pushed. “Ya <em> never </em> have, even from the very beginning. Other than...when I said ya were pretty.”</p><p> </p><p>A smaller flush collects on cheeks too supple for the slim frame below. The faint redness, signaling “go” rather than “stop,” and prompting a new, unofficial competition. Now, on Atsumu’s turn, he finds himself deciding between reciprocation or revenge.</p><p> </p><p>Or perhaps, both, with the right button pushed.</p><p> </p><p>“Omi-kun…” There’s less caution than before, and much more want. “Can I see ya again? Whatcha showed me already, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>A harsh inhale straightens Sakusa’s slouch, and a swallow trickles down an exposed throat. He throws a nervous glance around himself, as if having forgotten the lack of roommates, emitting discretion absent during his morning bout of courage. Then, the black shirt slides off in one swift, rough motion, as if there had been a restless wait for such a request.</p><p> </p><p>The same naked skin, its polish unsullied by a day’s work or the noise of low resolution, tinted by artificial light in more flaxen shades than 10 hours past.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I shouldn’t have said it, but I meant it.” Atsumu reiterates, sober and practically breathless. “Yer pretty. I could look at ya all day.”</p><p> </p><p>He initiates this time, the approach of his fingers persistent. In due time, fictitious contact lands millimeters away from the laptop’s mundane flatness, gliding over soft dunes which actually exist, yet must still be imagined.</p><p> </p><p>“When ya did this, I could almost feel ya touchin’ me everywhere.” There’s an innate tenor in his confession, as smooth as what his hand now delivers. “Can ya sense it, too?”</p><p> </p><p>Within the window, the sole movement comes from fluttering lashes, hard blinks dragged out over seconds.</p><p> </p><p>“Ye--yes. Kind of…”</p><p> </p><p>“What does it feel like, Omi-kun?”</p><p> </p><p>A few cycles of deepened breaths precede a half-parted mouth, agape with silence. And then, like the crude phrase that had haunted Atsumu all day, five fateful words - vastly different in their finesse, but identical in what’s underlying.</p><p> </p><p>“Like Osaka’s too far away.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in Tokyo. Population: one. Curiosity towards Atsumu. Desire for an alternate life.</p><p> </p><p>“But this will do for now, Miya.” Sakusa sighs in compromise. “I’m happy with this...if you are.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yah, of course.” <em> Whatever the definition of “this” is. </em></p><p> </p><p>Atsumu proceeds, his hand gentle in its sways and flips along the screen, offering meager substitutes for direct satisfaction. And Sakusa, immobile yet attentive, the faint shifts across his features giving away how much he revels in something this unusual. <em> It’s ideal for him. </em> The same thought from early morning echoes. <em> This lack of physical obligation. </em></p><p> </p><p>Touches, theoretical; skin, unreachable; Osaka, Tokyo.</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>There are a few nights of initial awkwardness, until they inevitably start comparing their topless physiques, all while still gifting those phantom caresses.</p><p> </p><p>“Yer very lanky.”</p><p> </p><p>“So? You’re bulky.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t set properly without these muscles.”</p><p> </p><p>“Was just stating an observation, not filing a complaint.”</p><p> </p><p>Once banter returns as the structure of conversation, their more relaxed selves also reemerge.</p><p> </p><p>And then, the second round, once European League restarts for the year.</p><p> </p><p>They’re both visual people, two pairs of vigilant eyes previously drawn to yellow and blue, now trained on tamer colors ironically flaunting all that’s untamed. In this round, there are still matches carrying on upon secondary screens, but the tension of fifth sets pales in comparison to what two distracted audience members engage in. It soon forges another rivalry, where they each choose one team to side with before the first whistle. Sleep clothes serve as their uniform, and as points pile on, cotton and polyester strip away with every lost set - until solely underwear remains.</p><p> </p><p>When Austria loses to Finland, the smolder of Sakusa’s eyes upon Atsumu’s exposed thigh practically sets his laptop ablaze.</p><p> </p><p>When Poland triumphs over Slovenia, Atsumu discovers many additional moles flowing along Sakusa’s spine.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 4, 5, 6, 7. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 8, 9, 10. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He takes extra showers on the days featuring their little game, his wanton acts poorly shielded by curtains of water - but even ten scalding downpours can’t cleanse the thoughts of his mouth claiming all those beauty marks.</p><p> </p><p>There are screenshots, coyly hidden in a folder innocently labeled “Tokyo” - Atsumu knows the laptop 500 kilometers away contains something similar within its hard drive. Without doubt, they have both caught the function’s sound effect from the other’s stream, the distinct “ka-chick” audible enough to be recorded and transmitted.</p><p> </p><p>The topic never comes up, but others do.</p><p> </p><p>“Ya know at this rate, Omi-kun, yer gonna be seein’ me naked soon.” Atsumu half-jests one evening, when he’s down 0-2 <em> and </em> down to his boxer briefs.</p><p> </p><p>“You <em> know </em> that’s impossible.” Sakusa, fully and comfortably dressed, makes no attempt to humor him. “We don’t count final wins, so we can only lose two sets - shirt, then shorts. Nothing more.”</p><p> </p><p>“And if I decide to <em> start off </em> shirtless? What then?”</p><p> </p><p>Inky eyes dart in his direction, incredulous in their clear expression of <em> you wouldn’t dare. </em></p><p> </p><p>Atsumu jabbers on, unintimidated. “So like I said, ya might see me naked before we even...kiss or somethin’.”</p><p> </p><p>The fiery stare widens, then softens. “You want to kiss me?”</p><p> </p><p>He lets a grin answer on his behalf and leans forward, bulky arms and bulky chest taking up most of the frame.</p><p> </p><p>“Do ya regret it, Omi-kun? Not seein’ me last time I was in Tokyo?”</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa scoffs. “The perfect score I got on my chemistry exam says ‘No.’”</p><p> </p><p>And yet, he also shifts forward, mirroring Atsumu in both pose and slyness.</p><p> </p><p>“But the me sitting here right now says ‘Yes.’”</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What would round three be? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The thought hits him hard, when masturbating to screenshots of underwear-clad Sakusa becomes as routine as his tosses. They have yet to place a label on what “this” is, but Atsumu knows it’s no longer about the tournaments on their tablets, or duels played across a network rather than a net.</p><p> </p><p>It’s exploration, for now, carefully laid out over the maps of their bodies - longitudes and latitudes mostly delineated, the few grids housing unknowns urging further discovery.</p><p> </p><p><em> I jerked off to Omi-kun. </em> <em><br/>
</em> <b> <em>But he might wanna kiss me back anyway.</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>And so he volunteers his treasure, on their last chat before Sakusa’s midterms hell. The evening starts with a prance into his webcam peripheral, his post-shower figure donning nothing but a short towel. He pauses when all that’s visible are his hip and groin, while his eyes, far above and out of sight, inspect every change in the other’s reaction.</p><p> </p><p>There is a twitch at the corner of the younger man’s right brow, before he closes his textbook in an instant.</p><p> </p><p>“Take it <em> all </em> off, Miya.”</p><p> </p><p><em> I win tonight</em>. He declares unspoken victory, bending down just enough to showcase the smile spreading across his jaw. “I thought ya’d never ask.”</p><p> </p><p>“Believe it or not, I don’t care so much about your dick.” More blunt words propel through a pouting mouth. “I’ve been wanting...to see the entirety of your thighs.”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu recalls eyes hooked onto his hip after their last high school match, not to mention that first instance of lost composure, transpiring as he flaunted quads in revenge for salacious stretches.</p><p> </p><p><em> No wonder… </em> At this point, the discovery is only a half-surprise, but it’s enough to make him force back a gasp.</p><p> </p><p>“So? If I do it, are ya gonna show me yers?” He challenges instead. “And for the record, I care a bit less about <em> yer </em> thighs.”</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa shoots up from the seat until the view focuses on his fingers, already curling into the waistband concealed beneath his t-shirt.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, of course.” The guarantee comes from a face unseen.</p><p> </p><p>The habitual striptease that follows is no longer new, though much faster than their typical set-to-set wait. As pale skin reveals itself, Atsumu scrambles to maximize to fullscreen mode, placing every detail under intense scrutiny. And even without any visibility of Sakusa’s eyes, he hopes they possess the same hunger his own likely bears.</p><p> </p><p>Soon enough, black briefs are all that remains within the close-up - more zoomed in than Atsumu has ever seen, the outline of what it holds painstakingly distinct.</p><p> </p><p>“Together?” He manages to utter.</p><p> </p><p>“Together.”</p><p> </p><p>Theirs are perpendicular movements - a horizontal unwrapping, a vertical slide of fabric - both steady, unhurried, with none of the boldness reserved for their on-court antics. Slowly but surely, the nether regions hidden deep beneath their v-lines, coming unveiled.</p><p> </p><p>It’s bizarre to see two sets of cock and balls captured alongside each other - picture-in-picture mode, no less, rendering Atsumu’s unfortunately much “smaller” by default. Admittedly, the proportion of Sakusa’s proves somewhat difficult to decipher, what with the spiker’s giant height and any distortion from the webcam angle. Like his, it’s uncut, and dangles from a midst of evenly trimmed black curls; but unlike his, it excels in length over girth. All things considered, Atsumu cannot predict the words that may sound next from his speakers. Perhaps a snide comment about his size, or a stoic observation about their shaving habits, or--</p><p> </p><p>“I sometimes forget that you dye your hair.”</p><p> </p><p>Such a first impression is at least close to what he expects, and he can’t help but snort. “Like what ya see at least?”</p><p> </p><p>“I could ask you the same question.”</p><p> </p><p>He accepts the deflection as the best “yes” he will receive, while his mouth battles between watering or drying at what now dominates his perception.</p><p> </p><p>“Love what I’m seein’.” <em> Wish I could do more than see. </em></p><p> </p><p>Narrow hips sway lightly, closer to an act of contemplation rather than seduction, and a brief silence passes before Atsumu’s view is forced into drastic change. Sakusa’s laptop, suddenly under a firm grasp, the aim of its camera flipping upward to the ceiling before realigning again. The new perspective proves familiar, its coverage spanning a recognizable bed that, at one time, had been occupied by suggestive stretching. But tonight, there is no such warm-up, just a slender, nude figure laying back until his head falls out-of-frame, remaining visible only from the neck down.</p><p> </p><p>Along the far wall, the Vabo-chan plush sits, like one last vestige of innocence.</p><p> </p><p>Out of some unnatural volition, Atsumu lowers himself to a kneel in an accidental reversal, with nothing but his face captured within the other window.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you have me on fullscreen, Miya?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yah, I always do.” He answers with no shame.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re so damn predictable.” The eye roll is restricted to imagination, but likely exists. “If you don’t want to see this - tell me.”</p><p> </p><p>As the footage rolls on, a hand creeps down the planes of a toned stomach, delving into natural crevices before towing a half-hard cock out of its nest. The first subsequent touches are tender, prudent - careful glides treating a sensitive shaft like a prized jewel, very much contrary to Atsumu’s more frenzied escapades.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Jesus</em>, Omi-kun.” His cheeks demand to blush, but all blood has rushed in the opposite direction. “Didn’t think ya’d go this far.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> do </em> masturbate, you know...” Sakusa sighs, deep and tranquil. “I’m a red-blooded male in the end, and touching myself...is actually the safest thing.”</p><p> </p><p>“I get that, but I still didn’t expect...”</p><p> </p><p>“You want to keep watching, Miya? Then shut up.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Ya </em> like <em> being watched? </em> Atsumu nearly wisecracks, but decides it adds no value to his current cause.</p><p> </p><p>“Hell yah.” He obeys instead.</p><p> </p><p>There’s another reach towards off-screen, and Atsumu sees a faint dollop of something within the soon retrieved palm. Lather, lather - all merge into skin, first over love lines and life lines,  then around an swelling outline eager to <em> be </em> loved. With every stroke upward comes the sensual arch of a back, its curve more extreme than any pre-spike bend-and-snap. And with every stroke in reverse, something else.</p><p> </p><p>They start as white noise, indecipherable behind the limitations of a sound card. But after Atsumu scurries to plug in his headphones, the moaned gasps hum directly into his eardrums, each reverb precisely illustrating expressions hidden from view.</p><p> </p><p>It’s dizzying, the whole experience - the concept of the untouchable, the amazement at Sakusa’s openness, the prospect of <em> this </em>becoming their new ritual. His hand has enveloped himself over unremoved fabric, cautiously groping for pleasure, still suspicious that the computer is simply playing back an erotic film produced by his mind. But there is no pause button, and sadly no rewind - just an ongoing stream of movements increasing in vigor. Meanwhile, his own self-portrait, positioned blatantly in the corner, looking lewder and lewder by the second.</p><p> </p><p>It’s dizzying, to watch himself fall apart.</p><p> </p><p><em> I jerked off to Omi-kun.<br/>
</em> <b> <em>And maybe I’ll never stop.</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>“Ah---!”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu barely registers that the yelp does not belong to him. It’s accompanied by a series of racy sound effects - <em> slap, slap-slap </em> - inconsistent in rhythm, losing volume due to surging speed. He stares, greedily, as the motions of Sakusa’s wrist reduce to a blur, as framerates fail to keep up with the need to climax.</p><p> </p><p>And then, a prolonged gasp, skipping the cochlear nerve to shoot directly into his libido, imprinting itself as a sound he will fantasize about for an indefinite time. Upon his screen, a sudden spread of pixels in shades of pearl, darting through air before landing across swathes of muscle.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not yet there himself, unwittingly delayed by the awe towards this whole sequence of events. And even as Sakusa sits up, wiping himself down tediously in swift recovery, Atsumu watches his own face frozen in place, a static state within actual static.</p><p> </p><p>“O...Omi-kun.” He stammers - wanting, <em> needing </em> to know, as if a mere answer would trigger his release. “What...what did ya think about? As ya touched yerself?”</p><p> </p><p>A dangerous smirk forms on a usually placid face, the slant of both lips held firm as Sakusa migrates closer to his laptop.</p><p> </p><p>“Good night, Miya.” The words are spoken with purposeful slowness, before the window vanishes - leaving Atsumu to deal with himself.</p><p> </p><p>Round three: his loss.</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>It's sheer coincidence that Atsumu’s local grocery store receives a fresh batch of bananas the next day, deliciously ripe and as yellow as the uniforms of a former - no, <em> current </em> - rival. It's also sheer coincidence that there is one special bunch, each attached fruit shaped like another recent object that had graced his eyes - multiple versions of it, that is. It's <em> definitely </em> sheer coincidence that said bunch now rests on his kitchen countertop, idle as it awaits Atsumu's consumption plans.</p><p> </p><p><em> Two can play this game. </em> The same thought from months ago reemerges.</p><p> </p><p>The plans involve retribution, though born more out of frustration from being left behind than malice. Nevertheless, as Atsumu texts with one hand while ripping a fruit off with the other, the crackling tear of the stem sends figments of discomfort into his groin, like warning signs against too much deviance.</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa doesn't ignore the messaged request, his status already bearing its usual green indicator by the time Atsumu signs on. The eventual pop-up reveals a scene as ordinary as one of their earliest exchanges, where he scribbles notes while perusing a textbook - as if last night had simply been a fever dream, as if they had never sprinted past sordid thresholds.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, I’m sure you’ve heard, Miya…”</p><p> </p><p>The younger man's greeting begins standard, but his jaw slackens as soon as both eyes rise toward the screen.</p><p> </p><p><em> “...why </em> the hell do you have that?”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu gives no emotion away, his focus solely on showcasing the banana in half pirouettes.</p><p> </p><p>“I always thought ya looked like one of these in Itachiyama’s uniform, ya know.” He feigns a tone of nonchalance, and slowly peels off the pliable skin. “But ya’ve never been very <em> sweet</em>, Omi-kun, so...the taste’s probably different.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck you, </em> Miya.” The scold is as serious as can be, but the laser look burning through Atsumu’s laptop could be interpreted quite differently.</p><p> </p><p>In response, he puts those consumption plans into practice, the minimal steps entirely different from his usual banana-eating habits. It begins with an errant tongue where the peels fan out, his taste buds sliding along the rough surface texture, picking up tinges of sweetness along its path. The flavor doesn't turn him on, but imagining what such movements might be doing to his lone audience does. The curved route climbs and climbs, mounting the rounded peak before it dissolves into entranced swirls, circling a completely different type of tip.</p><p> </p><p>Seven times his tongue loops - seven, subconsciously echoing the number of kissable moles along Sakusa’s spine. Yet somehow, even hypothetical acts already seem too modest. So when Atsumu pushes the spongy fruit into his mouth, dragging out that average time per centimeter, neither the two “ka-chick”s, nor the prospect of having provided free blackmail material convince him to stop.</p><p> </p><p>His concentration, however, completely unravels right after, with the acute cacophony of a chair being shoved. The shock causes Atsumu to do the worst thing possible: bite.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Shit. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He stares at the now-severed banana, its victimized part reduced to soft mush occupying his mouth. <em> So much for retribution. </em> </p><p> </p><p>From the corner of his eye, he catches a shadow dashing off-camera.</p><p> </p><p>“Heywhereyagoin’?” He mumbles, temporarily unable to swallow.</p><p> </p><p>No answer arrives at first, but less than a minute later, Sakusa slides back into his seat, a solid tube of bright blue in hand. Atsumu can only gape, stunned by the apparent identity of the object, as adept fingers tear into one end of the plastic packaging.</p><p> </p><p>“So ya<em> do </em> like ice pops…”</p><p> </p><p>A confused look shoots back, oblivious as to the context. “Yah, after pickled plums, it’s my second favorite snack. What about it?”</p><p> </p><p>One silly snack theory, proven <em> almost </em> correct.</p><p> </p><p>“Second favorite with all the artificial shit it has? Considerin' how healthy you eat?” He leads a detour, partially to disguise his recent failure, and partially out of genuine interest.</p><p> </p><p>“I stick with ones with all-natural ingredients, mind you. But either way.” Without warning, that other tongue protrudes, its unabashed lick at newly exposed ice far too sensual for such an innocent food.</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes, Miya, certain things can be...too delicious to ignore, no matter how much you try to deny them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck…” A twitch jolts from Atsumu’s shoulder, voyaging all the way down to his cock. “Omi-kun...ya have <em> any </em> idea what yer doin’ to me right now?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “You started it.” </em> Sakusa stares blandly at the banana, still upright and half-eaten within an immobile grip. "Though it didn't...end so well."</p><p> </p><p>He immediately tosses the peel into the nearby bin, disregarding any leftovers like unwanted memories. “No regrets - no matter how many screenshots you took.”</p><p> </p><p>Enigmatic eyes gleam with amusement, unbothered by being caught.</p><p> </p><p>“Show me, then. Show me exactly what I’m doing to you.”</p><p> </p><p>One silly theory, proven correct; one forbidden act, proven wanted. Atsumu eagerly pushes backward until he’s captured from head to upper thighs, and slides fabric down to his knees in one fell swoop. At the sight of his uncovered length, Sakusa's tongue samples even more generously, clamoring to devour each segment of blueness.</p><p> </p><p>There are no wandering fingers tonight, but faint licks nevertheless extend past the limits between digital and material, butterflying along the nerves lining Atsumu’s cock. He grips it with a groan, frantically trying to soothe flared up sensations, only to trigger another ten, then another hundred.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit…” His eyes roll back into their sockets, right as his fist engages in what would naturally follow.</p><p> </p><p>By the time he refocuses, Sakusa’s ogle has begun a dreamlike meander, drifting at the same pace as his movements, right as melting ice dye the flat of his tongue. His other hand shuffles at one particular spot beneath the desk, making no attempt to hide its actions.</p><p> </p><p>The trace of mutuality births aberrant thrills, and Atsumu feels his body being drained like the snack - every ounce of energy awarded to his strokes, in perfect rhythm with the tempo of another diligent muscle, seen but not felt. In between his unhinged groans are flashes of worry, concerns around new screenshots that could derail his career, but as soon as they surface, all thoughts are quickly sidelined by other, long-repressed needs.</p><p> </p><p>The last sweet bits tumble into Sakusa’s mouth, disappearing at the first hints of heat. Once the emptied plastic leaves his possession, he stands, stripping at clothes with a measure of impatience, chasing down unfinished narratives.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, Omi-kun--can--can I see yer face this time?” Atsumu scrambles for words, succumbing to wants less primitive than an erection in close-up.</p><p> </p><p>There is no verbal agreement, but Sakusa lowers himself before shuffling his chair back just enough, granting a perspective with the same range: head to hip, his cock already rock hard against a thigh. Bare walls, bare desk, and bare flesh free for Atsumu to savor - but through sight alone.</p><p> </p><p>He struggles through sensation and emptied lungs, forcing both eyes open to appreciate every centimeter on display. But when Sakusa deals those already-familiar strokes on himself, it’s everything contrary. As with the previous night, he’s collected, precise, the most blatant signs of his pleasure stemming from little other than occasional whimpers.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu feels a pinch of regret, at selfish preoccupations causing physical inability to screenshot for his cherished folder. But at least, he still captures, in freeze frames and in-motion both, collecting files to store permanently in the harddrive of his brain.</p><p> </p><p>It's a captivating scene, straight out of a small percentage of his shower fantasies: a handsome face contorted by bliss, blown-out pupils affixed to Atsumu’s from afar. There is no longer doubt as to who Sakusa had imagined the night before - imagines <em> now, </em> and perhaps also imagines on a daily basis. What results is a twisted victory for them both: private performance reserved only for each other, <em> spurred on </em> only by each other. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck...<em>fuck...” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> I jerked off to Omi-kun. </em> <b> <em><br/>
</em> </b> <b> <em>And he jerked off to me.</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>Atsumu unlocks those last barricades, <em> rushes </em> through ecstasy with a howl. Without the drench of a shower, come sprays all over the edge of his desk, narrowly missing both trackpad and keyboard. In delirium, he watches as Sakusa somehow aims accurately, splashing every one of his drops neatly across abdominals, as if he were lying prostrate.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re such a mess, Miya.” The spiker shakes his head while grabbing for a tissue, but does not pass further judgment.</p><p> </p><p>“How can ya stay so calm throughout all this?” Atsumu sinks deeper into his chair, gawking helplessly at creamy streams threatening to drip and stain his floorboards. “What we’re doin’...it’s kinda nuts…” <em> And this - me - is the grime ya never wanted to see. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Literally nuts, if you think about it.” Within fullscreen, Sakusa’s breaths draw heavier, but the rest of his face abides by restraint. “Sign off then, if you can’t take much more.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ironic, considerin’ how often I feared ya doin’ the same. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Are ya kiddin’?” Atsumu protests, all reservations forgotten. “I <em> want </em> more, if that hasn’t been obvious enough...”</p><p> </p><p>The inadvertent admission freezes them both for a few seconds too long, and Atsumu endures momentary panic, akin to the consequence of that other, “pretty” confessional.</p><p> </p><p>Tonight, however, Sakusa takes no steps to leaving him hanging a third time.</p><p> </p><p>“I meant to mention in the beginning, before your damn <em> banana </em> distracted me.” He snarls as he pulls his underwear back on. “Waseda made it this year.”</p><p> </p><p>To Atsumu's relief, the conversation has strayed back to their origins.</p><p> </p><p>“Made it to Kurowashiki, I know.” He nods, finally feeling coherent. “I saw the announcement today.”</p><p> </p><p>“So...guess I’ll see you in Osaka soon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> right.” </em> Atsumu sits up abruptly at the realization, unable to withhold excitement. “When, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa glances up to the ceiling. “Coach said we’ll arrive two days before it starts, but we have a...strict schedule.”</p><p> </p><p>There is a hint of pity as those last words are spoken, injecting uncertainty into whatever opportunities exist. Even now, post these acts of joint satisfaction, they have yet to designate the nature of this relationship, much less the nature of the opportunities. But like the games they play on-court, one loss - that Tokyo mishap neither of them wishes to repeat - has merely built determination for the next chance. And Atsumu senses that this time, the prospect of a single touch might trump most other priorities.</p><p> </p><p>With one touch, they may finally define what they possess.</p><p> </p><p>“Ok.” He suggests the most basic proposition. “Well, if there’s time…let's...”</p><p> </p><p>“Yah. <em> Let's.” </em></p><p> </p><p>They both leave the rest unsaid, as ambiguous as their ongoing indulgences.</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>The 48 hours of tight scheduling unfortunately prove true, with the hawkeyes of Waseda's coaches impossible to circumvent. On the days leading up to the tournament, their phones become occupied by occasional texts and emojis of disappointment, culminating in minimal interactions until the first day of competition. Even then, the bracket draws deem their chances of opposing one another slim at best, while the daily need for absolute focus on-court keeps both bodies and minds apart.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu commits whatever free time to spectating matches from the upper stands. It’s another so-close-yet-so-far distance, where he can always pretend to be browsing multiple games at once, in case anyone asks. Of course, he only has eyes for one school, one individual - donned in Waseda’s pickled plum-like maroon, having long shed his high school banana skin.</p><p> </p><p>Despite analyzing Sakusa’s plays via tablet over the past months - and for many years previous through VHS and training camps - bearing witness to his talent in-person always proves surreal. In more ways than one, his is a name that currently ripples down Atsumu’s tongue with ease, a form he has thoroughly memorized. And yet, the most awe-inspiring remains that magnificent flight - one he craves to someday send a toss towards.</p><p> </p><p>At points, he chuckles to himself at the thought of their public personas, fielding challenges and cheers as they are accustomed to. But no one in their teams, much less these stands, are privy to all the secrets divulged behind closed doors - challenges wanton, cheers moaned.</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa doesn't come to watch his games in return, but Atsumu isn’t terribly concerned. It’s already enough - perhaps <em> too much </em> - to appreciate him three-dimensionally from a seat, to simply breathe the same air. The rest are bonuses he will cherish: the knowing glances across the gym, the daily nods of acknowledgement, the friction of their jackets when they casually stand side-by-side during unofficial hallway reunions.</p><p> </p><p>“And when was the last time <em> you two </em> saw each other??” The first time such an event occurs, Hoshiumi pairs them up based on some scary intuition.</p><p> </p><p>“A few nights ago.” Sakusa chimes first, rendering Atsumu aghast until he manages to invent an excuse.</p><p> </p><p>“Yah, we video chatted and streamed Greece versus Slovakia - three sets to none, quite the upset!”</p><p> </p><p>Of course, they had been occupied by something else entirely, but Atsumu <em> did </em> look up the score afterwards.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! <em> NICE!” </em> The Adlers rookie exclaims his personal approval, and moves on to interrogate Kageyama about their upcoming schedule.</p><p> </p><p>[Omi-kun]<br/>
<em> My bad </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Was never a good liar </em></p><p> </p><p>By the time day three ends, both their teams have been knocked out, freeing them from further obligations. As planned, they utter excuses to teammates and former high school rivals - "Not feeling well." "Have plans." - and a night months in the making is further set in stone.</p><p> </p><p>[Omi-kun]<br/>
<em> Nine </em></p><p> </p><p>[Me]<br/>
<em> Okay<br/>
</em><em>You have my address</em></p><p> </p><p>At nine on the dot, Sakusa waits just beyond his doorframe, standing tall without a single physical barrier in sight, tangible in all his clothes and nested curls.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sakusa Kiyoomi. <em> In the flesh </em> at last.” Atsumu grins, before stepping back in natural invitation.</p><p> </p><p>Resolute steps close in immediately, and the door barely slams shut before he is captured - not by a webcam, but by lips.</p><p> </p><p>And ah, that first kiss doubling as first touch, quenching thirsts for the virtual self that had spread throughout their real bodies over time. <em> You want to kiss me? Yes. Yes. YES. Let's. Let's. Let's collide. </em> The origami of their desperate mouths, folding and unfolding, exiling the drawn-out absence of this most basic act, long deemed impossible by distance.</p><p> </p><p><em> Oh fuck...</em> Atsumu’s stimulated neurons exclaim deep within, unable to fathom a single sensation properly.</p><p> </p><p>Nonetheless, his touches escalate, much faster than the pace of platonic conversations to seductive stretches to orgasms on view. Setter hands wander valiantly across what he has already memorized by sight, groping at muscle of every texture and hardness. They celebrate the fresh discoveries past their usual world, rejoice in supernova heat scorching his fingertips. Meanwhile, Sakusa maintains solid grasps on his shoulders, the pinches from trimmed nails becoming more severe, the longer Atsumu explores.</p><p> </p><p>Empowered by the wildness of their tongues, Atsumu snakes his hand beneath a limber waistband, eager to hold the most desired find of all. But he only grazes the base of the buried arousal when a struggled hiss sounds.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, <em> wait</em>, Miya…” Sakusa snaps backward until his body slams into the door, the movement detaching them at every point. “Sorry, I…”</p><p> </p><p>His face, blazing crimson behind a shy grimace, utterly contrary to the intimidation he emanates both on-court and on-camera. Within seconds, he’s Omi-kun again, quivering under the fervor of another's hands, and not <em> Sakusa Kiyoomi</em>, daring and provocative within four walls. His hands have lowered to shield the slight bulge beneath dark sweats, despite having exposed its every detail countless times without reservation.</p><p> </p><p>Public and private selves - one and the same in theory, but not yet in practice. Even in this kind of seclusion, both aversions and a need for space have been reinstated  - and Atsumu can do nothing but accept.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, it’s fine. Don’t be sorry.” He raises both hands to the side, removing himself from uncomfortable equations. “I know this isn't the same as what we're used to, so if ya need more time...I get it.”</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa steps forward hesitantly, as if nervous about making the wrong choice.</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> want </em> to, Miya. I just…”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s <em> fine, </em> Omi-kun.” Atsumu spreads both arms wider, offering the proper welcome that they had skipped over. “I’m glad enough that yer here.”</p><p> </p><p>Another step, and Sakusa falls softly into the open embrace. His forehead slumps onto the steady shoulder he had clutched at moments ago, hiding rare embarrassment at ineptitude.</p><p> </p><p>"I’m glad, too."</p><p> </p><p>Suppressing any further urges, Atsumu hugs him delicately around the waist, his smile wide with reassurance, though the other cannot witness it.</p><p> </p><p>“How much time do we have?”</p><p> </p><p>“Our curfew is at 11." The words mumble into his jacket. "Will take me about 20 minutes to get back.”</p><p> </p><p><em> About an hour and a half, then. </em> He pats the spiker's bent back in a comforting gesture. “Well, then lemme make ya somethin’. Now that ya can <em> finally </em> eat what I cook...”</p><p> </p><p>Nods take the form of friction against his shoulder, and before long, he is guiding Sakusa into the kitchen, seating him along the granite counter prior to rummaging through the fridge.</p><p> </p><p>"Ya want anythin’ specific?"</p><p> </p><p>A silent few seconds pass behind him. "Your brother's omurice you made that one time, maybe?"</p><p> </p><p>"Ya got it." He grabs for the pulp carton on the shelf, but quickly detects its weight - or lack thereof.  "Oh. I don't have that many eggs left."</p><p> </p><p>"I...I don't mind sharing. Shouldn't eat so much this late, anyhow."</p><p> </p><p>The proposal is as virtuous as can be, yet it stuns Atsumu in the exact way as something illicit. Knowing Sakusa’s preference for solitude, not to mention all his reservations - including that very recent rejection - this, somehow, emanates unprecedented trust, one that bears heavier weight than the constant exposure of their bodies. </p><p> </p><p>As he beats eggs and fries rice over his stovetop, the notion itches at the edge of his mind. It’s underscored further every time he turns to peek at his guest, only to find dark eyes fastened to him, wistful and longing.</p><p> </p><p>“Smells good, right?” It’s almost easier, to pretend that obvious hunger - what he sees, and what Atsumu himself feels - is intended for whatever sizzles in the pan.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, really good.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s also easier to place the final plate in front of a human being, instead of a laptop keyboard. The gooey slide of the egg, enveloping a jumbled hill of rice and all its delectable secrets. And the garnish of tomato sauce on top, drizzled with random euphemisms none can interpret.</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa accepts the fork provided to him, gaze inquisitive across tufts of steam.</p><p> </p><p>“What are we <em> doing</em>, Miya?” His grip upon the silverware is wound tight. “What <em> is </em> all this...between us?”</p><p> </p><p>They're back to square one on definitions, as layered as what they prepare to consume. Whatever they’ve established for themselves across prefectures - shared food, shared bodies, shared lives - dwindling into mosaics under a subpar connection speed.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu takes a deep inhale, and slices into complexities of his own making.</p><p> </p><p>“This is nothin' I ever expected, but...I hope it’s somethin’ we both still want.”</p><p> </p><p>Fueled by an unusual bout of boldness, he lifts the fork and guides its collected contents towards Sakusa’s lips. "Is it what ya want, Omi-kun?"</p><p> </p><p>To Atsumu’s surprise, there is no sign of reluctance; only the gentle drop of a jaw, receiving the gift like it’s another toss or serve. And as lips gingerly draw close again, Atsumu thinks this sight may exceed any of their previous seduction-by-food attempts - hundredfold.</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa chews slowly as the utensil pulls out, savoring the bite in the same way he delights in his own cooking. When the moment concludes through a swallow, the words that ensue are dreadfully deliberate, but also filled with promise.</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, I want this." So softly, yet confidently he speaks. "Let's."</p><p> </p><p>They remain undefined, so Atsumu completes the sentence himself.</p><p> </p><p><em> Let's continue.</em> <em>Let's keep signing on. </em></p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>It continues, as mutual stress relief for Sakusa’s hectic college schedules and Atsumu’s off-season responsibilities - or so they agree to claim for now. Their figures move from desks to beds, where laptops rest prone above sheets for hours at a time, and where moans stifled into pillows are always clearly broadcast through headphones.</p><p> </p><p>The scenes are polar opposites of how they had parted in Osaka, a celibate last exchange of pecks to the cheek, since post-omurice breath hadn't exactly been ideal for much else. But as soon as the door had shut between them, Atsumu had known - those precious minutes of real touch, of real taste had already ruined anything less, and made them even more insatiable than before. In the aftermath of renewed long distance exists the greatest irony: a mutual courage to keep pushing boundaries, since the more separated they are, the more their audacity grows.</p><p> </p><p>So herein they carry on together, both laying nude on their sides, repositioned webcams granting new vantage points for the other to enjoy and screenshot. Pixels arrange into generous shoulders and tapered waists, then rearrange into fists gliding up and down pulsing lengths. Every detail, as recognizable to Atsumu as the perfected body positions of his own serves. But <em> this </em> body position of Sakusa’s that he beholds nightly - though untouchable and unmalleable - represents a unique kind of perfection.</p><p> </p><p>“What...are you...thinking about?” The bearer of his new ideal gasps during a humid summer evening, not long after both their strokes accelerate beyond control.</p><p> </p><p>Unlike the first time this question had been asked, it has become something rhetorical. Atsumu grazes his swelling tip, the buzz of pleasure launching truth from his throat. “I’m imaginin’ what I would’ve done to ya...had we continued back in Osaka…”</p><p> </p><p>In return, a reckless whimper projects from his speakers. “Next time, I swear...”</p><p> </p><p>“Dun’ worry...this is...this is better than great.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s not sure if Sakusa hears him, as his fullscreen view shows a pair of eyes squeezed shut, their owner potentially drifting into other worlds. Elsewhere in the background, pale blue sheets upon the other bed have been darkened by the transfer of sweat, its countless beads also coating Sakusa like an added layer of protection. But as the spiker writhes, any supposed defense morphs into self-destruction, threatening to ravage both of their resolves at once.</p><p> </p><p><em> Ka-chick. </em> He documents.</p><p> </p><p>“Miya...Miya...” Sakusa pleads, once they approach the perilous apex. “Can you point it...at your thighs? So everything lands there?”</p><p> </p><p>He obliges as well as he can, taking aim right as his systems collapse into euphoric chaos. The release spurts in harmony with their chorus of groans, painting the sinews of his quads in milky white.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu flips onto his back, trembling at each intake of air, his entire body likewise plagued by sweat. Rejuvenation hardly begins when he overhears an array of foreign noise, strange but alluring.</p><p> </p><p>When he glances back at the glowing display, the sight that greets him embodies another level of lewdness: Sakusa has crawled closer to his camera, his tongue curling and uncurling into the lens, pretending to lap up what he can see of Atsumu’s come. An outlandish act, putting a long-suspected fetish on brazen display - and yet another example of how far their perimeters have been virtually pushed.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Holy fuck…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tingles run up and down Atsumu’s legs, reacting to the uncanny likeness of the licks happening in reality. It feels like compensation, in a way, with Sakusa going the extra distance to atone for what had been halted in-person. But it feels even more like <em> invitation </em> - a dare to continue crossing boundaries, an assurance that certain promises have not been forgotten.</p><p> </p><p>“Omi-kun…” Resolve crippled, he becomes the one who pleads. “I gotta see ya again.”</p><p> </p><p>As if reawakening, Sakusa slows his ministrations before gradually shifting backward, expression both alert and relieved as he listens.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll do as much as ya let me, but I...I really wanna see ya. <em> Be with the real ya.” </em></p><p> </p><p>His counterpart is sitting back further now, exposing evidence of come still staining his stomach, having not been immediately wiped away. Rather than committing to usual habits, it seems that the need to clean <em> Atsumu </em> first had taken precedence tonight.</p><p> </p><p>That revelation prompts him to persuade, to camouflage fervent desire as gentle compromise.</p><p> </p><p>“I can come to ya. Or we can meet halfway. Ya don’t have to travel hours to get here.”</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa runs a hand through damp hair, the minute shifts of his features showcasing various stages of contemplation.</p><p> </p><p>“Halfway. Halfway’s good.”</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>Routines transform once more, the changes teetering on delicate ambiguities neither of them attempt to clarify. What does stand clear are additional credit card charges, neatly listed alongside Shinkansen roundtrip tickets purchased once a month, and numerous other costs restricted to a single location at a time. Hamamatsu one weekend, Kanagawa the next, Hakone after that - they meet over the map of Japan and not the maps of their bodies, testing the capacities of physical companionship.</p><p> </p><p>This connection is tangible by all means, but nonetheless vague, <em> halfway </em> - pushed boundaries reset from the moment they greet each other at the first meeting point. Commitments anew, rebooting their relationship through two alternate identities, between whom hands are seldom held and much tamer words are exchanged.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Which ice cream flavor do ya want, Omi-kun?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I already read up on the history of this castle, but sure, we can do the tour.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Damn, that’s a long cable car ride to the top.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Did you want lunch at the restaurant or the izakaya?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s all bizarre innocence under blue skies, idyllic day trips that end in chaste goodbye kisses and never overnights. Yet once they return home, 500 kilometers apart, the pent-up wants from sunlit hours materialize beneath veils of darkness. Their binary personas, succumbing as they always had for months - hot and bothered on laptop screens, encouraging one another to come undone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Wished yer tongue was on me and not the ice cream.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Did you imagine touching me? In that secret room of the castle?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “We coulda done a whole lot, if we were left alone on that cable car ride.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Back then, I was only hungry for you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The most risque thoughts, relayed into spoken word - truths as fuel to obtain nirvana.</p><p> </p><p>Amidst the dichotomy, there are two promises at hand: <em> Next time, I swear </em> and <em> I’ll do as much as ya let me. </em> Little by little, they’ve both veered towards the latter, neither taking physical presence for granted but also never taking advantage. It ironically works, Atsumu thinks, exploring each other through their two drastically different existences. And even when “next time” continues to be delayed month after month, there is still fulfillment in prioritizing curiosity over desire, rather than fiercely pursuing both.</p><p> </p><p>Christmas in Nagoya, New Year’s with family, extra outings to Fuji and Shizuoka over Sakusa’s school break, and the commencement of another school year.</p><p> </p><p>Like rewards for their patience, hints of definition sneak into their affair.</p><p> </p><p><em> I jerked off to Omi-kun. </em> <b></b><br/>
<em> And he jerked off to me.<br/>
</em> <b></b> <strong><em>Now we’re halfway, between cities - between friends and somethin' else.</em></strong></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>you see</p><p>YOU SEE now why 2 parts failed to work</p><p>thank you for patiently digging your way through this messy slow burn</p><p>WHY IS SAKUATSU ALWAYS SLOWBURN AHHHHHhhhHHhhHhhhHH</p><p>ahem</p><p>kudos comments feedback always appreciated!</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu">find me on twitter (18+ only)</a> - <a href="https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu/status/1332848488820912128">twitter graphic for this chapter</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. offline</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello </p><p>ty for your patience</p><p>this is the end</p><p>  <s>who still uses skype anyway they should just facetime/dm</s></p><p> <br/><a href="http://twitter.com/asakuatsu">here is my twitter (18+ only)</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu/status/1337908775282421761">fic graphic for WSWM</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It creeps in, in all forms recognizable and temporary, like the minutes bound within sign-on and sign-off. Nagoya snowflakes lost in black tresses, melting into obscurity before Atsumu can flick them away; Wadded tissue, generously used across stomach and thighs before disposal; Depleting batteries of two abandoned tablets, no longer relaying illegal volleyball streams, sidelined by devices hosting private past times.</p><p> </p><p>They’re just halfway, but already two planets who have forsaken their star.</p><p> </p><p>They’re just halfway, but Atsumu knows he occupies most dates on Sakusa’s calendar.</p><p> </p><p>Kofu is the destination for April, a haven of cherry blossom pink alongside modern structures, a street-after-street clash not unlike one between naive words and wanton needs. Together, they silently trek upon that precipice, Sakusa’s gently slouched form at Atsumu’s side, fielding the occasional floral gusts that besiege them. As with all their other outings, today is an accessible, legal video stream, playing forward in the crystal screen of human perception, awaiting interactions beyond pause.</p><p> </p><p>It’s late afternoon when sunlight slices through skyline and treeline at the perfect angle, casting hues warm enough upon Sakusa’s features to rekindle old truths.</p><p> </p><p>“Omi-kun.”</p><p> </p><p>Their footsteps cease simultaneously; pause. Their hands brush; beyond pause.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yer pretty.”</p><p> </p><p>Around the stark white of a mask, warm hues dial warmer - brighter chromas than what shines above, richer pinks than the surrounding nature.</p><p> </p><p>“Miya.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re...kind of pretty, too.”</p><p> </p><p>A silly phrase, at best, but still the one that has led them beneath this array of sun-blessed blooms. Compared to all their other in-person exchanges, this inaugural repetition symbolizes progress, even if Sakusa’s face pinches throughout.</p><p> </p><p>“Did ya have to look so <em> pained </em> when ya said that??” He laughs heartily, attempting to deflect from the elation in his own mind.</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t help it.” Sakusa grumbles below a sour stare. “The pink petals all over your head - reminds me of whenever you commentate as Vabo-chan.”</p><p> </p><p>“Admit it. That’s yer favorite version of me.” Atsumu hops forward, his adornments fluttering off in droves, his voice pitching higher into the requested role. “Yamamoto tosses to Sakusa! His signature move lands with a smash!!”</p><p> </p><p>“If you keep going, I’ll <em> refuse </em> to sign on later tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>He winks over his shoulder. “As if ya’ve <em> ever </em> missed a show.”</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa groans before sauntering past him, though the bump of their arms reflect more playfulness than annoyance. Atsumu follows closely, tempted to grab him by the waist for an affectionate gesture, but holds back - as he always does.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey! Aren’t you Miya Atsumu? Setter for the Black Jackals?” Right then, an unfamiliar voice sounds from ahead, putting them both on a second pause.</p><p> </p><p>An older man approaches via a slow jog, maintaining distance but openly gawking.</p><p> </p><p>“And <em> Sakusa Kiyoomi? </em> Wait, the two of you are teammates? Aren’t you still playing for Waseda?”</p><p> </p><p>Such extensive knowledge of their statuses rings an alarm, but Atsumu camouflages concern with a smile. “Yes, he is.” He nods before fabricating white lies. “We’re...old friends from high school, just catchin’ up.”</p><p> </p><p>The stranger accepts without doubt, and smoothly retrieves a phone from his pocket. “If it’s not too much, can I get a picture with you for my children? We all love watching volleyball.”</p><p> </p><p>One photo, stored away in a foreign harddrive, with the potential to go anywhere and everywhere in this interconnected world. Ironically, its innocence embodies danger far worse than scandalous screenshots tucked in hidden folders. <em> No photos. </em>Atsumu almost says, yet hesitates in the face of riveting notions.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yes, take the photo and share away. Show the world the two of us. Ask them how to define this. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, no photos. But autographs are fine.” Sakusa pipes up from up front, shoving aside anything uncouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah! Yes, that’ll do fine.” A pen and small notepad extend towards them seconds later.</p><p> </p><p>They sign one after the other, quickly yet personally. Sakusa’s writing is tiny and neat next to the flourish of Atsumu’s ballpoint loops, but the juxtaposed pairing convey something strangely comfortable. For a second, he can almost envision them on the sidelines post-match, dual markers scribbling over fan merchandise emblazoned in black and gold. Together, they decorate the same items - and commemorate all the on-court plays that come prior. Something profound begins to collect in his chest, but each time he attempts identification, it dissipates before being firmly caught.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The two of you are teammates? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A silly question, at best, but still the one that ushers in new definitions previously unconsidered. The words revitalize their star, its new offering a singular orbit that could potentially accommodate them both. <em> Omi-kun. Miya. </em> Spoken not into headphones, but on the same literal playing field.</p><p> </p><p><em> Kurowashiki again, next month. </em> Atsumu suddenly recalls. <em> Maybe playin’ together will be easier to imagine when we’re in the same arena. </em></p><p> </p><p>Their walk resumes, but at his side, Sakusa falls into a deeper silence than before, as if mulling on identical visions.</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>A few weeks later, they speak through laptops on a night unexpected, any original plans surrounding the May tournament thwarted.</p><p> </p><p>“Miss ya here.” Atsumu nips at his bottom lip with more fervor than necessary. “It’s ridiculous that Waseda didn’t get chosen this year. Everyone’s talkin’ about it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Out of our control, I guess.” Sakusa shrugs from the other end, disappointment rife yet subdued. “But playing aside, it’s not as if we don’t already see each other.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I kinda wanted to see ya play - in person.”</p><p> </p><p>Within the window, dark pupils dilate during the ensuing pause, as soundless as the end of their Kofu outing.</p><p> </p><p>“I see.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Atsumu’s perspective shifts as Sakusa hauls his laptop from desk to bed, now a common occurrence ever since that first gutsy performance. Unlike previous times, however, the eventual placement positions the view at a completely different angle - one that points right at the center of long, parted legs, the dip at their conjunction covered by fabric.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I can try to...compensate.”</p><p> </p><p>Voicing no other explanation, Sakusa lies back against a stack of pillows, elevating himself just high enough to keep his head visible. Atsumu’s mouth dries as shorts and underwear slip off in a matter of seconds, exposing regions both familiar and unfamiliar. Hands proceed to clinch the final piece of clothing at its hem, rolling the t-shirt up to chest level, before straining for the nightstand drawer.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu nearly chokes when the hand returns to frame, holding a container of lubricant.</p><p> </p><p><em> Oh, </em> this <em> kind of “play.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I wanted to go a tad farther in Osaka this year than just dinner.” Sakusa mutters nonchalantly, lavishing his fingers with the clear gel. “But since we have to wait, anyhow, I guess I can take things one extra step <em> another </em> way.”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu gapes, unblinking, as a flexible wrist slides forward to guide a single, glistening digit into the center of his view. It prods at the dented ring of muscle - pressure, pressure, push - a few tantalizing cycles before delving in. A second finger soon joins the fray, followed by Sakusa’s other hand drifting to caress the length resting on his stomach. Like everything else the spiker does, all the movements are practiced, controlled - signs of obvious experience outside of what Atsumu observes this very instant.</p><p> </p><p>A bit past the enticing valley, a head tosses back, waves cresting along the connected throat before they expel as heavy groans, each gush of sound paired with the deeper and deeper probes feasted upon by amber eyes. Desire pools at the usual spot, and when Atsumu grips himself with equally bold motions, he imagines those daring, on-screen hands being his own, fearless in their surveys for pleasure. </p><p> </p><p>When Sakusa’s neck nods forward again, his eyes are abundant with emotion, blatant through the daze, emanating trust and vulnerability above a carnal display. This position, this timing, this <em> angle </em> - so outside of the context Atsumu usually thinks of such phrases, so <em> Kiyoomi </em> to entrap him with, as he knows exactly how non-existent the boundary lines of their Skype court have become <em> . </em> </p><p> </p><p>Despite all Atsumu’s resistances over months, both online and in-person, the urge to lunge through polarized glass and grab ahold of the figure within has never grown greater. It’s a <em> play, </em> alright - the faster those hands move, the more he envisions the ideal result he can deliver. But rather than the glory of a point, it’s visuals of his partner being pulled into his lap. Rather than a failed dig from an opponent, he is digging kisses into a pale torso’s crevices, claiming every darkened dot and patch of skin. And their celebration, an embrace - where he guides slim hips down onto his cock, stretching that ever-widening crater to accommodate himself. Joint cheers arise in the form of satisfied cries, before a most languid ride begins.</p><p> </p><p>In reality, Sakusa’s moans resound from a beautifully contorted face, his fingers now plugging and unplugging with zeal, burrowing into treasure troves still out of Atsumu’s reach.</p><p> </p><p>At the realization, he narrows the grasp of his strokes, seeking to understand just how tight the sensation must feel around eager hardness.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So tight, so pretty, so-- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Kiyoomi…” He hisses aloud for the first time, much too entranced to suppress what his mind has ached to growl for months.</p><p> </p><p>A nameless, shameless growl blares in return, setting resistances free and triggering them both to spill onto themselves. Atsumu’s come splashes onto thigh the same way it has for months, an habitual aim from that initial request. And though the events leading up to this moment prove different, his half-shut eyes spy Sakusa undertaking the same endeavor: climbing closer towards the camera, his tongue keenly licking at the lens in that fruitless devour.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu slackens his limbs, and offers himself - forever fully exposed for the remote indulgence.</p><p> </p><p><em> This dependency and openness even while far apart. </em> He nearly chuckles. <em> We </em> are <em> already teammates, if in the most bizarre way. </em></p><p> </p><p>“How did I play, Miya?” The question reverbs in his headphones after a short while, tone absent of jest.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu wipes at his damp forehead with the back of an arm. “Did ya want me to commentate all that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe next time, if you promise to use your normal voice.” The spiker sits back, composed. “But remember: announcers call me ‘Sakusa’ during games.”</p><p> </p><p>He flushes, realizing how his unrestrained cry <em> had </em> been caught, after all. But the mere mention of games propels him from sexual escapades to many other what-could-be’s. Above all, <em> hands </em> - in all their alluring motions, permitting access to sacred places, inviting his tosses to fly into their disciplined arches.</p><p> </p><p>“That play was breathtakin’.” His smirk is saturated in deviance. “Better than anythin’ I’ve seen at the tournament, <em> Kiyoomi.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Within the video stream, the flush is a much heavier shade than his.</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>His preseason begins with the addition of a familiar face, and enough bonus kinetic energy to amp up team spirit tenfold. Prior to his graduation, Bokuto Koutarou’s recruitment had been rumored for months, especially as the Jackals had lost two key outside hitters to foreign leagues. To see his former rival up-close-and-personal is another kind of solace entirely, and to toss to him a fresh kind of thrill. Within a few weeks’ practice, they quickly rise as a dynamic duo, one year difference in age but bearing the same childlike heart, funny post-score rituals and foolish nicknames and all.</p><p> </p><p>To Atsumu, they are all previews of sorts, for another team addition he might like to manifest.</p><p> </p><p>Old-time acquaintances deserve special treatment, and so he spares hours for this rebooted friendship whenever Waseda plays, snacks and drinks spread over the coffee table as maroon uniforms dash across his TV screen. Bokuto never asks why it’s always 90-some minutes of Kiyoomi and friends that they tune into, or why Atsumu isn’t free on most other nights. Such choices make him perfect company, even if he is the loudest drunk in the world.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Tsum-Tsum! Can I borrow your laptop to look up something? My phone’s still charging.”</p><p> </p><p>The spontaneous request comes in the middle of an intense rally, when Atsumu can only afford to sacrifice a sliver of attention.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah go ahead, it’s over there.” He points in the general direction, and barely notices when his couch restores its shape from the lessened weight. From the corner of an eye, he perceives Bokuto’s journey ending at his kitchen counter, dynamic fingers already typing away as soon as the keyboard comes within reach.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey! You have a folder of ‘Tokyo’ stuff?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck. </em> That fateful group of files is nowhere near his desktop, but he had clearly forgotten to close the directory containing it.</p><p> </p><p>All rallies be damned, Atsumu storms across the short distance from living room to kitchen, arms flailing the entire way. When his palm slams the cover display shut, the action nearly severs Bokuto’s fingertips - not the most ideal development for those in their profession.</p><p> </p><p>“Huh? You okay there, Tsum-Tsum?” The older man dangles both salvaged hands in the air, more confused than upset at the near-ending of his career.</p><p> </p><p>“So--sorry, that stuff’s private.” He stammers, breaths running shorter than after the most demanding training sessions.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh don’t worry, I wasn’t gonna open it or anything!” Bokuto smiles wide, his acceptance easygoing as ever. “I just noticed the name since I miss home, hahaha.”</p><p> </p><p>The casual admission ignites a slew of other unspoken ones, and heeds Atsumu to further examine his personal state of mind. Indeed, he also misses, plenty - missing Tokyo, missing Omi-kun, missing Kiyoomi. Though they already meet once a month, and at least a couple of heated nights a week indirectly, he now yearns for all the times in-between. Those average moments that comprise an uneventful day, made significant by the right companion. It’s akin to the teammate and friend who stands next to him now, supplying various interpersonal fulfillments as they move from court to home and back to court. But if it were Kiyoomi instead, if it were him present on those calls of “left!” - how might his daily life change then?</p><p> </p><p>An hour later, after Bokuto bids farewell, he reopens the laptop and the perilous folder. The scrolling is habitual, the contents anything but mundane, yet Atsumu finds himself looking past scandalous screenshots that had brought him endless satisfaction. It has been weeks since the <em> ka-chick </em> last sounded, and the only recent images are of him and Kiyoomi together, random scenes imported from a phone camera, captured not in Tokyo but from the day trips at <em> halfway </em>. They’re outright glimpses of the changes he wonders about - a relationship and a life that they could define in the long-term.</p><p> </p><p>Emotion overruns him - a rush of affection, not a rush of lust. And in its midst dawns the belief that the folder has, perhaps, been mislabeled this whole time.</p><p> </p><p>When?</p><p> </p><p>When had pristine memories become so much more potent than fantasy?</p><p> </p><p>His fingers move on their own accord, replacing two kanji with another pair, altering “Tokyo” into “Osaka.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Oh. </em> Atsumu gapes at the change, suddenly breathless.</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>He shines from the very start of the Challenge League season, moreso than ever before in his professional years. The sets to Bokuto are particularly tight, executed with enough precision to return them both to high school-level glory, even without his twin guarding the other side.</p><p> </p><p>They’re his most faultless public performances since he first encountered rough volleyball leather, the crème de la crème - achieved for his team, for the crowd, for eyes of obsidian somewhere in Shinjuku district.</p><p> </p><p><em> Watch me closely, Omi-kun. </em> He beckons from afar match after match. <em> Watch how I can also satisfy like </em> this.</p><p> </p><p>Those rare away games in Tokyo are always fleeting, the hours insufficient for any gathering beyond those with teammates. Atsumu never manages to find curly hair above a mask in the stands, but proofs of Kiyoomi’s loyal viewership always surface through delayed mentions, seamlessly integrated into conversations of every nature. The outrageous references to his play come within their ongoing teases, provocative as they play and tease harder with themselves.</p><p> </p><p>“Looks like the cantilever set you pulled off” comes after a five-set victory over the Red Falcons, right as Atsumu’s back and thighs bend into severe, orgasmic arches.</p><p> </p><p>“My hand is busy now, but I would’ve hit your second-set toss as a straight” follows a loss to the Hornets, spoken placidly between steadfast strokes.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s always fun, right? Us together, like this.” Atsumu crows into the microphone on one occasion, words sensual but meaning doubled.</p><p> </p><p>With his torso dominating the camera’s close-up, Kiyoomi tweaks at a nipple, a few whimpers the only audible response at first.</p><p> </p><p>“You always look like you’re having lots of fun these days, Miya. On the court, too.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Then come, Kiyoomi. Come for me. Come </em> to <em> me. </em></p><p> </p><p>Such thoughts are earnest and frequent, but during their monthly reunions, it’s still “Omi-kun” he utters, friendly and mild.</p><p> </p><p>Christmas arrives at the blink of an eye, though a bunch of scheduling conflicts prevent an in-person meeting. As replacement, they uphold virtuous holiday spirit through their typical routine, sparse decorations scattered in their window backgrounds, an unrealized day trip shifting to evening form. The main event builds from small mutual gifts - sake that Atsumu had mail-ordered from the outskirts of Osaka, pickled plums Kiyoomi had found in a local market - generous servings of both exhibited on their desks.</p><p> </p><p>“Your tosses.” The compliment comes three drinks and forty minutes into the night. “They were flawless during that last game before break.”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu snorts in between sour suckles. “Either yer already <em> really </em> drunk, Omi-kun, or if the <em> superstar </em> of the college league actually approves - it must mean Bokkun and I make a <em> damn </em> good pair.”</p><p> </p><p>“‘Bokkun’…” The whisper lands on the rim of Kiyoomi’s cup. “Yes, you do.” </p><p> </p><p>As he sips, pixels construct a different longing in his gaze - one ripened with peculiar wants, not necessarily seeded in physical desire.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Miya.” He lowers porcelain with tenacity. “How would you toss to <em> me? </em> If we actually played together?”</p><p> </p><p>It materializes in full - that dangerously seductive outlook, haunting Atsumu often in recent days, whisking away all logic far faster than nudity filmed for his enjoyment. In Atsumu’s sake-blurred vision, the Christmas lights behind Kiyoomi have reformed as clustered stars, lighting the joint trajectory that attracts them past <em> halfway, </em> steering towards possibilities becoming difficult to deny.</p><p> </p><p>He clears his windpipe, voicing strategy well-prepared. “Mm, I remember tossin’ to ya at high school camps, and it seems ya still like’em very close to the net. Yer jumpin’ reach looks at least 10 centimeters higher now...but not a hard adjustment for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Sake floods his throat, numbing against whatever may transpire next, before he continues.</p><p> </p><p>“Why’re ya askin’, Omi-kun?”</p><p> </p><p>“No reason.”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu inches closer, ever the sly interrogator. “Have ya been thinkin’ about me...tossin’ to ya?”</p><p> </p><p>A drowsy frown fixates on him, as spiker hands blindly move to fill another cup.</p><p> </p><p>“No.” The subpar denial is washed down by a single gulp. “I <em> am </em> thinking about your thighs right now, though.”</p><p> </p><p>The blunt request instantly makes Atsumu twice as tipsy. “I can show ya that, too - in a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not tonight. This is supposed to be like a trip, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Right. Fun and friendly and innocent. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They pour again, in sync and generously, as if competing on whose bottle would see bottom first. But as minutes pass, and only muted sounds of drinking feed through their headphones, it becomes a matter of who would succumb and crack the silence.</p><p> </p><p>For once, Atsumu wins.</p><p> </p><p>“You want to know something else...Miya?” By now, Kiyoomi is visibly battling through disorientation, his upper body wavering in place. “In those fan polls back then, I did vote for you in <em> one </em> good category.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah? Which one?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Player I’d Most Want to Date.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s a startling reveal, but his drunken self only manages a prideful chuckle. “Are ya finally gonna ask me to date ya? After we’ve literally gone out at least...10 times already? Not to mention <em> everythin’ else </em>we’ve done over this damn video chat?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Shut up. </em> None of that counts...”</p><p> </p><p>“None? Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>There is a pause, and then words slosh out like helpings of alcohol.</p><p> </p><p>“They don’t count, not until what we do online and offline are the same…things...”</p><p> </p><p>Endeared, Atsumu almost extends a hand in comfort, the inability for touch momentarily forgotten.</p><p> </p><p>“I told ya already - I can wait.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why? <em> Why </em> are you waiting, Miya?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because--because ya know, I think...I think yer pretty?” His words make poor sense in context, but he lifts his cup in homage to the everlasting fact.</p><p> </p><p>Many shinkansen stops away, the younger man collapses onto his desk, overcome by a fit of laughter.</p><p> </p><p>“Whaaaat?” Atsumu musters up energy to protest the mocking reaction. “I always say that ‘cus it’s true!”</p><p> </p><p>“I just remembered how--how you were also this drunk the first time--you admitted that to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah? Ya wanna know somethin’ else, too?”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu’s thoughts are blurred by sake-flavored incompetence, but he takes an imaginary wipe to polish the webcam lens, applying a last semblance of clarity to everything on record. All those pending definitions - touting no name, but now presented in hi-definition.</p><p> </p><p>“I can wait, because I really like ya. <em> Lots.” </em> His intoxicated confession jumps ten steps ahead in pace, and eons ahead of schedule. “So if ya ever asked me out properly...I would never say no.”</p><p> </p><p>The laughter ceases, and Kiyoomi appears to plunge into a dreamlike state, watching him with something akin to wonder. <em> Maybe, </em> Atsumu muses, <em> Maybe this is what he looks like when he watches me toss. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Miya...”</p><p> </p><p>His lungs hitch in anticipation, enough to halt the hiccup that threatens to escape.</p><p> </p><p>“Merry...Christmas...”</p><p> </p><p>With that, dark lashes flutter close, and Atsumu is left alone to view a livestream of slumber, until he also surrenders to the unconscious.</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>In the end, Kiyoomi never properly asks, and they leave the topic untouched for months, even as they enjoy the remnants of winter in the smaller towns of Aichi. Nevertheless, Atsumu is increasingly conscious as April draws closer - it would mark Kiyoomi’s last year at university, the final months before decisions about unknown futures must be made.</p><p> </p><p>He pursues the buzz surrounding the senior into the May days of Kurowashiki, where the place for Waseda maroon has rightfully been reinstated. Unfortunately, any attempt to approach Kiyoomi proves even harder than the years before, as more people - athletes, fans, and strangers alike - hover around him with constancy, scrutinizing his every move and interaction.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu almost foregos all reservations on the second day, the temptation to simply stick at the spiker’s side ballooning, despite the risk of such an act. Ultimately, he resists - it would certainly amp up rumors about Kiyoomi’s interest in him and the Black Jackals, but serve little other purpose other than self-gratification. Plus, their proper reunion, in the form of movie and popcorn at home, had already been set for that very night.</p><p> </p><p>As always, however, disruption emerges as a five-set match for Waseda, its hours extending deep past sunset. It’s late in the evening when the battle finally concludes in the school’s favor, and as Atsumu stands to sprint home, he catches Kiyoomi’s dragged footsteps down below, stamina depleted from the elongated test of will.</p><p> </p><p>He had expected a lengthy shower and locker room stay for every Waseda player, so when knocks sound mere seconds after he enters his apartment, he gapes into the peephole with shock.</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi stumbles in after the door swing, disheveled and unbalanced, clearly having rushed from the stadium at a moment’s notice. Contrary to all predictions, the trip over to the apartment had taken priority, even over a shower.</p><p> </p><p>Heartened by the fact, Atsumu gathers him into a warm hug. It’s already more intimate than most of their direct interactions, but to reconvene in Osaka for the first time in two years also seems an adequate reason to lower walls.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, ya alright?” He mumbles into the crook of a neck, unperturbed by the strong scents of overexertion.</p><p> </p><p>“Tired…” Kiyoomi’s hands clutch to his back, as if absorbing energy from a second pillar of strength. The fatigue is something Atsumu understands firsthand, especially with the many overtime matches on his side of the sport.</p><p> </p><p>“Ya want me to draw ya a bath, maybe?” The idea is instinctual, since it’s always his preferred solution for rejuvenation. “I saw the bracket, and ya still gotta face the Adlers tomorrow. This might be the best way to jump start ya.”</p><p> </p><p>Two nods grind into his shoulder, utterly trusting.</p><p> </p><p>Linking their hands, Atsumu guides them into his bathroom, steps as slow as the figure loitering behind would allow. Once they cross that doorway, it’s a series of nonverbal agreements: the collection of water heated to Kiyoomi’s preferred temperature, the unassisted removal of sweat-through clothes, the noise of a figure rinsing himself under the showerhead. Despite many temptations and limited space, Atsumu averts his eyes entirely, not peeking even when he hears the splashes of static liquid disturbed by intrusion.</p><p> </p><p>“Miya...do you want to get in, too?”</p><p> </p><p>He swings around partially, startled. “Are---are ya sure? My germs…”</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi’s pointed chin dips slightly through the bathwater, the rest of him - other than exposed kneecaps pressed together - hidden due to angle and refraction.</p><p> </p><p>“I already got in first, and I can tell you showered after your last game. So yes, I’m sure.”</p><p> </p><p>With a gulp, Atsumu strips, feeling strange that he’s not doing so while seated in front of a laptop. A warmth quickly envelopes his skin, though he can’t be sure whether it stems from the room’s humidity or the burn of a gaze. Either way, he holds back from returning any attention, his only glimpse of Kiyoomi’s silhouette a distortion beneath translucence, visible as he climbs over the raised edge.</p><p> </p><p>They nestle along opposite curves of the tub, four legs all bent but untouching, four eyes all looking nowhere but straight across. The distance is near yet far removed, not unlike how they exist behind two screens on different sides of Japan. Faint steam arises like that from omurice two years past, a conduit for exposures beyond the physical.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you looking at me like that?” Kiyoomi murmurs first, words saturated in irony.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu answers firmly, the combined force of air and sound parting a sea bound for condensation. “I’ve...never seen ya naked. In person, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Right, I forgot that.” The whites surrounding black irises expand for the briefest moment. “Do you like what you see?”</p><p> </p><p>“I could ask ya the same question.” Atsumu elevates both his arms, placing them along the acrylic rim. “But I guess, none of this should look new to either of us.”</p><p> </p><p>He notices Kiyoomi’s focus stray, pinned on the droplets dripping down the contour of his bicep. The longer he stares, the more his posture straightens, rising until the column of his neck and slanted shoulders are above water again.</p><p> </p><p>“Miya. You like <em> me</em>, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Like pale skin gradually departing liquid, the four-month old confession also resurfaces. Contrary to when Atsumu had spoken it, there’s careful emphasis placed on a single word, a heed to discern between tangible and intangible, permanent and ephemeral.</p><p> </p><p>Luckily, Atsumu very much understands the underlying ask, the previously submerged doubts that request his affirmation.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I like the <em> real </em> Sakusa Kiyoomi, not just the one I see on-screen.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s honesty and reassurance, but it magnifies tension vibrating through the water housing them both. An unknown period passes before Kiyoomi migrates his entire body, arms turning into support columns as he leans forward. The subsequent crawl takes on a snail-like velocity, each movement as calculated as all his actions behind a webcam. Little by little, he traverses distance <em> and </em> dimension, crossing actual liquid instead of liquid crystal, replacing fictitious pixels with real flesh.</p><p> </p><p>The movements end right before any palpable contact, as Kiyoomi comes to a kneel between Atsumu’s spread thighs. His torso holds taut and balanced just centimeters away, propped up arms caging both sides of the setter’s robust waist. Within the reduced distance, their breaths are the only things that touch - the blows of air dense and steady, unwittingly synchronizing.</p><p> </p><p>“Omi-kun…”</p><p> </p><p>His whisper is like a trigger pulled, propelling them into each other - though Atsumu is uncertain who actually initiates. The kiss harkens back to the one shared two years ago at his front doorstep, all chasteness erased by the fervor smearing throughout their lips. But even as both tongues start to probe, Atsumu grips the edges of the tub, devoted to not betray boundaries the other should remove at his preferred pace. </p><p> </p><p>The touches come gently, discreetly. With one hand at a time, as to not lose balance, Kiyoomi swims fingers literally across the surface of Atsumu’s skin, carrying out a most graceful underwater exploration. It does not feel so different from the phantom caresses he’s used to, but his muscles throb just the same, the toughest sinews weakened by the most delicate brush. As much as his hands ache to return the favor, he remains resolute - submitting like that initial morning when they freed their physical wants, allowing himself to be mapped first.</p><p> </p><p>And then, a third taste of contact starts near the top of his right thigh, its bed of tiny hairs welcoming the hesitant arrival of something thick and long. The very spot where an imaginary tongue had cleaned his essence over and over, now free to elicit climax by itself. Fetching mews rush into his mouth as Kiyoomi ruts his half-hard cock along the arched skin, the slides infinitely more intoxicating than any flitter of fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu inhales all the vocal signs of pleasure, the sensual sounds coaxing his own erection to a painful size. When his hips begin to float upward with independent volition, unable to resist the most human cadence, Kiyoomi also shifts.</p><p> </p><p>Coinciding gasps nearly repel their lips as two cocks scrape against each other, a movement made difficult by bathwater, but the sensation nonetheless surreal. From there on, each roll of Kiyoomi’s waist sends Atsumu somewhere far past their two home cities and all the places in the middle, launching straight into the celestial orbit intended for him. No other touches are granted to their roaming lengths, but desire pent-up for months and years has made nerves painfully sensitive, and it only takes a short series of grinds for the alarms of release to ring.</p><p> </p><p>Right then, Kiyoomi abruptly detaches his mouth, head bowing in struggle, both palms once again planted on the tub floor for purchase. It reduces their contact to that most fragile region, and like the flow of water, everything rushes south.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh fuck...<em>so </em> good…” Beneath the nest of curls, a strangled cry.</p><p> </p><p><em> So, </em> so <em> good. </em> Atsumu explodes without warning, overwhelmed by the concentration of everything so imminent and material. For once, he comes not by his own hand, or an unscripted fullscreen show - but by a close-up performance, documented with his own eyes.</p><p> </p><p>As he groans, Kiyoomi crashes down onto him, the force somewhat softened by buoyancy. An elegant nose nestles along his collarbone, while chest finally crushes against chest, but post-orgasmic bliss renders Atsumu too numb to enjoy the skin-to-skin contact. Together, they watch silently as a combined stream of opaque substance floats to the top of the water, its path turning from transparent to sheer.</p><p> </p><p>For once, no clean up is necessary, but after a shattering of boundaries at this level, the unwinding of complexities may prove a much harder task.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu gingerly moves his hand, burying it into curls dampened by both steam and sweat.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry...for the mess.” After all the scolds he has endured, the apology comes automated.</p><p> </p><p>“Hate to admit it, but I think I was responsible for this one.”</p><p> </p><p>“That felt...quite a bit further than halfway.” He can’t help but whisper. “Why all this, so suddenly?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm.” A tepid response is given, strangely neutral.</p><p> </p><p>They soak for a short while longer, entwined physically and mentally, before Kiyoomi breaks away. His body rises in a languid fashion, slim legs exiting the water without leaving much disturbance behind. Atsumu stares as he returns to the showerhead, turning it on for a quick spray down. Within his exhausted muscles, a tinge of nervousness burgeons at Kiyoomi’s hushed actions, as if recent events have caused minimal impact.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, everythin’ okay?” He stacks both arms upon the edge, head supported above the layered limbs.</p><p> </p><p>The younger man glances back in his direction, eyes barely blinking despite the invasive water dousing him. Beneath wet lashes, the look is indecipherable at best.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s goin’ on, Omi-kun?”</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi’s stare returns to the wall tiles.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been getting offers,” He states with a rare hint of distress. “From V. League scouts everywhere. A few wouldn’t leave me alone during the tournament.”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu recalls the clamoring crowds, and can do little other than reassure. “That’s great, no? Ya already know what yer next year looks like…”</p><p> </p><p>“But I don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>He twists at a knob, halting the ongoing barrage, before obsidian meets amber again.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what <em> this </em> looks like next year, Miya.”</p><p> </p><p>Like windowed scenery uncovered after a successful call, Atsumu begins to understand the developments of tonight, the haste in Kiyoomi’s need to progress, to <em> feel. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> This. </em>Them. Orbits partially formed but still pending completion. He gulps, aware that opportunity awaits around the corner, but could also evaporate with a careless sign off.</p><p> </p><p>“Did...did the Jackals give ya an offer?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi stands upright, nude and beautiful and deserving of every offer in the world.</p><p> </p><p>“Your team was one of the first to reach out, a few weeks ago.” He confides. “They insisted that I would be a perfect addition to Bokuto, and...an ideal partner for you.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Bless Coach Foster. </em>Atsumu exhales with muted relief. “And what...did ya think about that?”</p><p> </p><p>There is no response at first, just inquisitive eyes examining him, as if asking vice versa.</p><p> </p><p><em> What do </em> you <em> think about that, Atsumu? </em></p><p> </p><p>He knows the answer is simple, rhetorical. At first, his longing for this constant proximity had always been for selfish reasons. But as months progressed, he has discovered another potential behind their shared talents, how their coexistence within the confines of a sport can create infinite value: trumping expectations, trumping curiosity, trumping desire.</p><p> </p><p>For ages, they have been each other’s most trusted, devoted audience in more ways than one, but like other facets of their personal needs - that merely marks halfway.</p><p> </p><p>“For our next outing, I’m gonna come to ya.” Atsumu flashes his most sincere smile, voicing hopes long held. “Let’s play - for real.”</p><p> </p><p>“Miya…”</p><p> </p><p>“Osaka was never too far away, Omi-kun.” He reminds them both, and thinks of a folder name modified. “And neither is Tokyo.”</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>[Samu]</p><p><em> Going to Tokyo by yourself?? </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Thinking about transferring teams? </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Funny. </em> Atsumu scoffs as he types a denial. <em> He has never cared about me disappearing for a day into other towns. </em></p><p> </p><p>Nevertheless, it <em> is </em> disconcerting how relevant his twin’s instincts are.</p><p> </p><p>Humidity weighs on the capital city’s summer, the benign mugginess provoking recollections of a recent bathroom encounter. From the moment they meet in a secluded outdoor court that only Kiyoomi and a few others apparently know about, it’s serious business, with little hesitation between serves and drills.</p><p> </p><p>They practice the whole day, transforming volleyballs into meteorites of their own making. After countless hours of viewing each other’s games - and even more spent studying each other’s bodies, there’s instant recognition of the pivot in every toss and the placement prior to every spike. It is, as the scout had inferred, ideal - effortlessness due to familiarity, perfection due to trust.</p><p> </p><p>By the time dusk arrives, the mirage of them autographing merchandise together has returned, its details scarily absolute.</p><p> </p><p>As Atsumu packs up the few volleyballs he had brought, a palm lands tenderly on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Take the early morning train.” Rouge skies reflect sublimely on Kiyoomi’s cheeks. “Stay.”</p><p> </p><p>He grins back, clutching those taped fingers within his, forging a bond inseparable the entire route to a Shinjuku apartment.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s much brighter than I expected.” The immaculate interior does not surprise, but the luster throughout compels Atsumu to squint.</p><p> </p><p>“My webcam quality was never the best.”</p><p> </p><p><em> More than good enough. </em> He muses, but keeps the thought to himself.</p><p> </p><p>Dinner is shared over an actual table, the meal masterfully prepared side-by-side in the small kitchen minutes before. For a few hours, Kiyoomi’s spotless apartment echoes with spirited conversation, its aura brightened further by wordless smiles, flashed back and forth as dishes are passed from sink to rack. Soon after, they revive unrealized plans, popping a blockbuster film into the DVD player, its title questionable but tolerated.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu anticipates the soft tangling of pinkies and his shoulder doubling as pillow - both of which manifest during the two hours of bad dialogue and visual effects. But as the credits roll in the aftermath, it’s Kiyoomi who grasps for his neck, demanding extra attention.</p><p> </p><p>“Can we keep things easy tonight? And just sleep?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” The suggestion is much tamer than communal bathtime, but he’s not disappointed in the least.</p><p> </p><p>They shower one after the other, and when Atsumu reemerges wearing his pajamas of choice - one of the few ridiculously yellow separates in the closet - the face directed towards him from the bed lights up with amusement.</p><p> </p><p>“Come here, banana-Miya.”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu proudly owns the moniker as he accepts the extended hand, settling into his side of the plush mattress, its width barely enough to contain them both. The color of the sheets is no stranger to him, but the fascinating additions of texture and smell put him at ease.</p><p> </p><p>They lounge facing one another, much more clothed than their usual minutes spent together in such positions. But tonight, they’re no longer subject to the usual divides, and Atsumu feels boundlessly content.</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi takes full advantage of their proximity, any qualms now relics of the past. With a sturdy grip upon Atsumu’s wrist, he plays tour guide, delicately escorting the setter’s hand all over his clothed torso. The moles he knows well are concealed, but he obeys the assigned paths with enthusiasm, committing a whole other set of details to memory.</p><p> </p><p>The tables flip in due time, and soon it’s Kiyoomi’s fingers that paw at Atsumu’s thigh, nudging possessively into muscle before lifting the whole limb to rest over his own hip.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s <em> all </em> yers, if ya want it.” He teases a kiss to an elegant nose bridge.</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi’s tongue peeks out, and he squeezes at the hefty hamstring. <em> “Who </em> would want something like <em> that?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Atsumu laughs, following up the single peck with peppers of another dozen, a rain of tiny meteors crashing with far less force than a Sakusa Kiyoomi spike. Here and now, they create bona fide connections on their terms, without the programmed limits of speed or time. And at last, two planets have recalibrated their center, comfortably enclosed within the same four walls. Their existence, no longer 500 kilometers apart - and may never be again.</p><p> </p><p>“Does next year...look clearer to ya now?” He double checks, just in case.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Much...”</p><p> </p><p>The pledge is short and sweet, but left open-ended - until Kiyoomi raises his head to whisper directly into an open ear.</p><p> </p><p>“Mi--Atsumu. I like you, too. Lots.” The name - the secret - indeed resounds loud and clear. Indisputable definition, more deafening than any headphones can transmit.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu knows he should cherish this moment to the utmost, for a journey stemming from illegal volleyball streams seldom ends at utopia. But past lifted limitations, they are officially of a different status now - <em> two </em> different statuses, in fact - and that dual reality of <em> teammate </em> and <em> boyfriend </em> provokes his most cavalier side, revives that spirit of competition that had started it all.</p><p> </p><p>Hence, he brushes his knuckle over a sharp cheekbone, both brows wiggling in feigned taunt.</p><p> </p><p>“Ya like me? I’m <em> shocked, </em>Omi-kun.”</p><p> </p><p>Immediately, his errant wrist is captured in the same calloused grip, and a forehead wrinkled in judgment captivates his attention. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re going to annoy the hell out of me once I join the team, aren’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu tows his hand back, and kisses the one hopelessly attached to it, seeking forgiveness months in advance. </p><p> </p><p>“Every single fuckin’ day.”</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>For one night, Atsumu’s laptop doesn’t display a live video stream. From the commotion on social media hours ago, he’s already well-versed in the news footage’s contents before he ever presses play. But as with other forms of confession, to hear claims directly confirmed is always added security.</p><p> </p><p>“Sakusa-senshuu, many congratulations on the championship and the MVP award. Now that your final collegiate season is over, have you decided on your post-graduation plans?”</p><p> </p><p>Waseda’s superstar stares straight into the camera, as if speaking to a specific Osakan viewer one-on-one.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I have.”</p><p> </p><p>Within the faint shifts of his expression, Atsumu identifies reminisce - of meals shared around keyboards, of bliss while threadbare, of halfways stretching into formal destinations. They had agreed to remain focused for these past few months, with only serious conversations and decisions dominating each Skype call. Everything in-person had been dedicated to volleyball alone, the hours of covert practice honing their partnership as two orbits gradually merge, but also testing their patience for plenty else.</p><p> </p><p>Soon, it may finally be time to reap all their rewards.</p><p> </p><p>With a grin, Atsumu taps at his phone until a text chain appears, its most recent message from early morning. Though cryptic when initially received, the words now seem deserving of a thousand screenshots and rereads.</p><p> </p><p>[Omi-kun]</p><p>
  <em> On my way </em>
</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>Of course, he’s the one who enthusiastically volunteers to help the new rookie move into a neighboring unit, jumping at the chance before anyone else steals that mantle. The confused reactions from his teammates remind Atsumu that no one - the most oblivious likely Bokuto - is aware of their particular circumstances yet, but he will defer to Kiyoomi for the timing of that reveal.</p><p> </p><p>The moving truck from Tokyo is only partially filled when it arrives, granting evidence of the minimalist lifestyle Atsumu has already witnessed on many occasions. Once its contents travel from shipping container to living room, he can’t help but laugh when he unpacks tablet and laptop from one box, and a somewhat squished Vabo-chan from another. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t wait to see <em> my </em> friend!” He performs one last squeaky imitation before Kiyoomi snatches the plush from him, effectively ceasing his puppeteering stint for the day.</p><p> </p><p>The actual end, however, does conclude with better - and cuter - prospects.</p><p> </p><p>“Bring yours next visit, so they can meet.”</p><p> </p><p>Come nightfall, Kiyoomi rewards his diligence with a homemade dinner far too elaborate for the debut meal in an apartment, served on the same table they shared in Tokyo. Atsumu wolfs down the croquettes and intricately-cut sashimi with zeal, savoring not only the delicious food, but also the fact that <em> this </em> is only day one.</p><p> </p><p>“Check yer freezer.” He points with both chopsticks when only crumbs remain. “I snuck dessert in there when I first came in.”</p><p> </p><p>His new teammate regards him with suspicion, but obeys the decree.</p><p> </p><p>Seconds later, Atsumu dodges when the box of banana-flavored ice pops is thrown at his head.</p><p> </p><p>Random acts of violence aside, they still indulge in the treats once clean up concludes. Above a heavy silence, their mouths suckle and lick as needed, and Atsumu can detect a certain memory replaying behind shadowed irises.</p><p> </p><p>“I only have a futon for now.” As his tube hollows out, Kiyoomi mutters with near indifference. The latent meaning of his words, however, ring apparent: the “next time” in <em> next time, I swear </em> is tonight.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu swipes his tongue over cooled lips, mimicking the casual attitude. “That’ll do just fine.”</p><p> </p><p>The mild exchange becomes the first foreplay, within this brand-new abode already sheltering irresistible temptations. Soon, there are clothes strewn in an empty bathroom, towels abandoned in the middle of vacant space, and two freshly-dried bodies reclined above neatly spread blankets.</p><p> </p><p>As usual, Atsumu restrains himself, immobile even as Kiyoomi cups his jawline from the side.</p><p> </p><p>“Miya.” Urgency dusts his tone. “I’m ready - to go all the way.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” Regardless of predictability, his face reddens. “Uh, do ya have...”</p><p> </p><p>“Under my pillow.” That rare, devious smirk flares up. “You’re not the only one who hid something today.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s a baffling revelation, and Atsumu remains in awe even after he retrieves the lube and foil packets from their refuge. His shock is interrupted when Kiyoomi hauls him into a kiss - long, intense, and as deep as their groans during the conclusion of many streams. A bit below, fingers, devoted to selfish pleasures for months upon months, are set free to roam throughout uncharted terrains.</p><p> </p><p>He experiments at first, imitating those initial, unfelt touches along a torso.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on - <em> more.” </em> The invitation hisses into his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu obliges in place of verbal agreement, groping at the forbidden, surging through those last barriers. As per his years-long wish, he quickly moves to kiss every memorized bit of blemished skin, feeling modest pride at finally attaining those spots.</p><p> </p><p>“Just so we’re clear.” Kiyoomi gasps as he endures light bites sinking into his obliques. “This isn’t how you welcome <em> all </em> of MSBY’s rookies, is it?”</p><p> </p><p>He glances up slyly. “Only the ones I’ve watched jerk-off for at least two years.”</p><p> </p><p>Wry chuckles resonate, and he shuffles upward until they’re face-to-face.</p><p> </p><p>“Only the ones I’ve thought about non-stop for months.”</p><p> </p><p>He seals their lips together, before a third and final declaration.</p><p> </p><p>“Only the ones whose spikes are as pretty as they are.”</p><p> </p><p>A playful pinch lands on his bicep. “I still can’t believe you talk like this while sober.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ya like me either way.”</p><p> </p><p>The <em> I do </em> doesn’t come, but doesn’t need to be said.</p><p> </p><p>“So how...where do we go from here?”</p><p> </p><p>Pulling at a slender waist, Atsumu slides their torsos impossibly close, bulky and lean muscles melding as one. “Tell me what <em> you </em> want, Kiyoomi.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivory teeth chew nervously at a bottom lip. “I want--I want your thighs.”</p><p> </p><p>He mulls on the candid wish, and exactly how best to fulfill it. But before any plans spring to mind, the spiker starts to maneuver him at will, going quite a bit beyond crossing a single leg over a hip. For a second, there is a tussle for balance, and it ends with Atsumu aloft, kneeling right over Kiyoomi’s body, adjusting his weight forward so as to not crush any lungs. It’s an outlandish scene no webcam can capture in full, with his thighs and knees framing a soft yet angular face, while his half-hard erection dangles dangerously close to an open mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Ya...ya want it like this?” He suffers dizziness at the heady position, especially as two forearms wrap around to lock his legs in place..</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Without warning, the head below turns to kiss and nibble at taut skin, ignoring what blatantly hangs in between. Thighs over dick - just as he had always prioritized.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu’s neck tilts astern, his eyes lulling back even further. It’s an assault in an erogenous zone even he himself has ignored often, and the bites, though dainty, are ruthless in their pursuit and appetite.</p><p> </p><p>“Te--tell me, Omi-kun.” He chokes out in an attempt to wrestle back control. “When exactly did ya start obsessin' over them?”</p><p> </p><p>The assault pauses briefly. “Probably...much longer than you think.”</p><p> </p><p>He falls forward again, flattening palms to the pillow for support. “Happy to make yer dreams come true then, <em> Kiyoomi.” </em></p><p> </p><p>The voiced name unleashes something wild in its owner, and suddenly, there is a tongue gliding over the tip of Atsumu’s cock, its audacious lick also turning <em> his </em> dreams into reality.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh <em> fuck--” </em> He nearly loses balance, but the hold against his legs is sturdy enough to keep him steady.</p><p> </p><p>In this next segment of his lewd torment, the appreciation for his thighs moves partially to his erection, and when warmth tentatively envelops the first centimeters, it entices Atsumu’s hips to veer forward, the need to be taken deeper growing by the second. He resists giving into stronger thrusts, but the tedious nature of the swallow ironically drives his senses berserk. And Kiyoomi, no longer a likeness licking at a webcam lens, looks more beautifully debauched than in any of his screenshots.</p><p> </p><p>A mad idea surfaces then, paving a way to return the favor. Kiyoomi may have been the one to stretch beyond human limits, but Atsumu also possesses flexibility ideal for unique endeavors. With a struggled pounce - as his bottom half is no longer obedient to any manual commands - he retrieves the lubricant, doing his best to collect enough of the clear substance.</p><p> </p><p>“Hold my thighs tighter.” He requests, and quickly experiences the euphoric results of compliance.</p><p> </p><p>With confidence in Kiyoomi’s strength, Atsumu leans back as much as his spine would allow, without sacrificing any pleasure already sparking around its base. With one palm providing balance and the other covered in lube, he reaches behind - halfway, all the way - until his posture resembles that of his most demanding tosses.</p><p> </p><p>When he grips the unstimulated cock, lying out in the open along jutted muscle, a moan vibrates around his own hardness. The noise is muffled at first, but the soundwaves soon transfer, as an even louder one bursts through Atsumu’s mouth.</p><p> </p><p>From there, they carefully rove over sensitive flesh with other parts, maintaining the unusual position that perhaps only the two of them can pull off. Despite his added weight, Kiyoomi’s lower back arches, his hips now in an ongoing hunt for the friction of Atsumu’s fist. On the other end, a roaming tongue continues to alternate between inner thighs and cock, and though the latter should trigger extra draughts of pleasure, the sensations have somehow become identical.</p><p> </p><p>When taste buds glide sensually across the entire length of his underside, Atsumu swallows back a roar.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, Kiyoomi. <em> Stop.” </em> He halts the handjob to wrestle himself out of the armlock, tumbling sideways onto the flattened sheets. The air’s coolness promptly surrounds where there had been comforting heat, triggering some slight regrets.</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi props himself up with both elbows, somewhat unnerved. “Did I…”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no.” Atsumu catches his breath. “Just didn’t wanna finish too fast. Did--did ya enjoy that?”</p><p> </p><p>The nods are rapid, but questions soon follow.</p><p> </p><p>“What about you? What do <em> you </em> want, Atsumu?”</p><p> </p><p>He regards the earnest and inquiring expression, the bare body that has tempted him beyond measure - every outline solid, every groove touchable.</p><p> </p><p>“I already have--” He ushers the craned neck towards him, kisses breaking apart words. “The real--Sakusa--Kiyoomi.”</p><p> </p><p>Period of rest over, he maneuvers this time, heaving the spiker’s colossal frame into his lap - exactly as he had envisioned, and infinitely easier than attempting so through a computer. A muscular ass hovers just above his hard-on, still partially slick with saliva. And his fingers, layered with unused lube, drift below to probe at a most intimate spot, displayed to him in full once upon a night.</p><p> </p><p>“And I want <em> this. </em> If ya let me.”</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi drapes arms weakly around his neck, his body settling downward into the penetration.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you’ve been patient enough.”</p><p> </p><p>Smiling at permission given, Atsumu immediately goes to task, working the hole open in the same way Kiyoomi himself has done, obeying the pace and method that he precisely recalls from another angle.</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi presses their foreheads flush, whimpering as his personal routine is impeccably executed by another. Atsumu delves deeper, spreads wider, listening for sounds of discomfort that never appear.</p><p> </p><p>“Go on...take me, all the way.”</p><p> </p><p>The approval motivates his other hand to blindly grab for a foil packet, the edge soon ripped open by teeth. It’s difficult to slide the condom over himself at first, but he eventually succeeds before smoothing on another coat of lubricant.</p><p> </p><p>By the time his sensitive tip replaces diligent fingers, Kiyoomi’s own patience had run out, and there’s little reluctance in how he lowers himself into the invasion. As more and more of him becomes engulfed, Atsumu is swamped by unprecedented triumph - rounds won, challenges conquered, the ultimate connection achieved. Unlike subpar imitations on a screen, the actual experience proves overwhelming - lightyears better than the efforts of his wrist and fist.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Fuck</em>...didn’t think it’d be like<em> this</em>.” Above him, Kiyoomi mirrors those very thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not long before he bottoms out, and they sway together again, tender and faithful, two courses converging into that single orbital path. Remarkably, years of perceiving one another from afar hadn’t dampened this moment, but made it more spellbinding than Atsumu’s most lifelike fantasies. There’s curious grace in how years of visualized nudity never spoiled <em> now, </em> or how endless private broadcasts cannot compare to their current, entangled selves.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu’s mouth unleashes impulsion, feasting on this delectable meal prepared by them both. It leaves temporary marks on permanent skin - definitions of indefinite shapes, but all bearing a single veracity.</p><p> </p><p><em> This is real. </em> He reasons between doses of rapture, and tastes of something absolute, <em> What we have is </em>real.</p><p> </p><p>Within his embrace, the real Kiyoomi writhes and ricochets - his weight knocking against Atsumu’s lap with recurring force. Before long, his back and waist enter increasingly drastic bends, putting flexibility from years of devoted stretches into practice. The velvet of his cock rubs vigorously along Atsumu’s abs, painting bulging muscle with dozens of leaked drops.</p><p> </p><p>“Kiyoomi.” He speaks aloud some long-hidden thoughts, and returns touches to that veined surface. “Come for me. Come <em> to </em> me.”</p><p> </p><p>Irises slant down, glassy like lenses, capturing Atsumu with focal lengths construed by raw emotion.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes...yes...I’m...”</p><p> </p><p>Then and there, a final concession to their star, now a beautiful black hole with relentless pull. Its force shatters their planetary selves into a million pieces, only to reform the granules as one - not to simply share an orbit, but the exact same core. It burns with the blistering heat of climax, ferried through a single network of nerves that link them in every state - within sight, within mind, within body, and within soul.</p><p> </p><p>At last. Population: two. Distance: nil.</p><p> </p><p>“...I’m <em> here, </em> Atsumu.”</p><p> </p><p>-*-</p><p> </p><p>“Whoa--Tsum-tsum, Omi-Omi, how are your timings so <em> synced </em> already?!”</p><p> </p><p>Forty minutes into the first day of practice, and their faultless combos have already inspired suspicion from a boisterous teammate. Not the most ideal development, perhaps, but Atsumu spins a volleyball between both hands, yielding the extent of explanation to his new partner.</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi ducks below the net, face as tranquil as can be. “We watched each other...<em> play </em> the past few years.” A glance directs sideways toward him. “A lot.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Bad liar, but doing better. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>As weeks and seasons carry on, evenings serve as platform for such lies, poorly-lit darkness cloaking the sneakaway of toes along a corridor. The hails for each other are usually issued through phone call or text, or even pre-acknowledged space on the daily calendar. But occasionally, Atsumu reverts to a classic method.</p><p> </p><p>[Me]</p><p><em> Hey </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Sign on? </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Calling... </em> <b>Sakusa Kiyoomi</b></p><p> </p><p>His boyfriend pops up on the screen, wearing visible annoyance.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you Skyping me from <em> two doors down?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Force of habit.” He suckles at wayward sauce left on a fingertip, and showcases the night’s sizzling creation. “How does this look?”</p><p> </p><p>A judgmental squint scrutinizes through the screen. “Another recipe from your brother?”</p><p> </p><p>“No! This is all mine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Looks...awful.”</p><p> </p><p>Unruffled, he waves the pan round and around. “Well, it’s waitin’ for ya.”</p><p> </p><p>“...I already ate.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eat again, Omi-kun.” Atsumu puts on his amateur nutritionist hat. “Yer in the <em> pro leagues </em> now, ya need the boost.”</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi sits back with a sigh, his defeated countenance seemingly regretting his team of choice.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine, give me a few minutes.” He begins to push off his chair. “Oh but, one question.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s for dessert?”</p><p> </p><p>In the smaller window, Atsumu sees himself bare all teeth, grinning from ear to ear.</p><p> </p><p>“Bananas - one for ya, and one for me.”</p><p> </p><p>For the first time in their history, his beloved blocks him on their most precious app. But offline, the real Sakusa Kiyoomi is a Black Jackal through and through, and like every other night, Atsumu only has to count down the seconds prior to his arrival.</p><p> </p><p>From there, webcams switch off, and hearts switch on.</p><p> </p><p>[F I N]</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ty ty ty for reading through this mess that turned from a silly tweet to 26K words, lmaoooo</p><p>my other ~sexy~ sakuatsu offerings are <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787083">TMx3</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567103">Watchingtoshi</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790006">Stripper Atsumu</a>, and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29811360">SakuAtsu Pornhubbers</a></p><p>until then I will continue to be H with hcs and threadfics on <a href="http://twitter.com/asakuatsu">my twitter (18+ only)</a></p><p>and <a href="https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu/status/1337908775282421761">here is the final fic graphic tweet for WSWM</a> if you wish to share the wealth</p><p>kudos comments feedback always appreciated!! THANK YOU ALL AGAIN FOR SUPPORTING MY SILLY FICS THIS YEAR!!!!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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